I listened to John Prine
the other day
and could hear the sound
of his heartbeat
singing.
He sang in a mid-western
drawl, slow and easy,
but waltzing steady
with a quirky rhythm
and a satirical rhyme.
His gravelly voice
spread across the universe
like a worn, comfortable blanket.
He tweaked my mood
and sharpened my soul
with each bend of his jaw.
I could see him writing songs
sitting on a porch,
a beer by his side
with his gentle fingers
strumming
his sweet goodbye.
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