Saturday, May 19, 2007

Poem #139 of 365

Jason, you have no idea, but you appeared
on the plasma screen the other night
at the library. I was walking towards you
and marveling at how much you resemble
John Wayne.

The black-and-white film, some old war
classic, showed the chiseled and slim
youngish Wayne. The sound was turned
down so it was easy to imagine your voice
dubbed in with that face.

Of course, I had never considered this ever
before. Your uncannily similar looks. And it
was not lost on me that this was about as
close to being like John Wayne that you could
ever possibly be.

I think you are a different kind of Americana
hero, a rambling potluck of a man. You can
sniff out the fake from the real, yet the gold
is not what makes you rich--it's your musical
barefoot soul and the way you magically keep
the gas tank full enough to careen you towards
the next rollicking roadhouse on the odometer
of your lifelong national tour.

And that, my friend, takes true grit.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

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