[PancakeBrah]

Ferris Wheel
He loved that bench. Right next to the ferris wheel.

He wore a big coat, leather hung at his knees,
in Summer time, with a sweater tucked underneath.
At Coney Island, plucking his teeth and sucking a lime.
A former veteran, sunk in his seat. "What a wonderful time."
he said to himself to the ire of passerby's,
but with the sun at it's peak he never grew tired of batted eyes,
"I've seen your type a hundred times," he laughed and sighed.
He wore boots strapped and tied, both marked
with white graffiti of his own pen and type of thought,
next to a guitar case, with a Stratocaster, wires taught,
and one bottle of gin from his own private stock.
It was Hendricks, he preferred the bottle's aesthetics,
and it's produced mental fog begetted a loss of all he regretted.
Today he kept the cap virgin, unbroken and fine,
because nowadays fair goers never provoke enough for his mind.
There was a forgone time he'd drink, strumming a string,
every visit, and even to skeptics it was something to see.
He preferred Hendrix. Not for the flash, but the meaning,
the soul and the skill, spoke to his inside's caterwaul screaming.
Making close to fifty dollars a day, he was fine and carefree,
on a bench with a six string, carrying melodies,
with no problem searching a barren well to find canaries.
But now he mostly sits, with a greying beard of homely wisps.
Sixty years of life will make motion quit, and his bones are stiff.
"This night is setting slow." The bench's birch agrees,
"I should be heading home." To theses new strangers,
these are just senseless words to heed.
But it's their loss, to be the cause of a dream's end.
Honestly they don't deserve to see the way he makes strings bend.