There’s a man on the road
smoking a cigarette in the cold.
Can’t tell if he’s walking or driving
but the whole time he’s smiling
in this big disheveled coat.
Can he see me
or is his vision too dreamy?
It’s hazy out
all around you can see the clouds —
are we on the ground,
or strolling through an Olympus mount?
We seem to be going the same way,
though his shuffling seems to drain away
the sound of this place,
this nowhere state.
Should I say hello?
Are we friends through the smoke?
Or will he cut my throat,
use my body as a note,
a song to his former soul?
And what’s that song?
I think I can hear it now —
It sounds long and filled with doubt.
He’s been looking at me this whole time
but now he’s singing loud.
It’s a curious ode
but it sounds familiar..
I think it goes:
“There’s a man on the road
smoking a cigarette in the cold..”