He takes the bible from one motel
And leaves it at the next;
Says it's his way of spreading the Word.
Plays the radio while he drives,
Remembers half the lyrics
To every country song he's heard.
His father was a traveling salesman,
It seems that he's the same;
Town to town, keeps selling his song.
All the words he put together
He now believes himself,
He's been telling his stories so long.
Every road has a different story to tell,
But by now he knows them all too well.
Every road has another story to tell,
But in every town he brings the same one to sell.
Eating moon pies with a fork,
Another roadside stop;
Checks his old, misfolded map.
Thinks he needs a new one soon,
Reclines the driver seat;
Just enough time to take a nap.
He knows by now tomorrow's just
But reckons it's as good as any.
On the way from here to there,
Does it even matter
Whether it's one year or twenty?
Stephen Brooke ©2009
A song, of course. The 'salesman' here is a metaphor and need not apply literally to a traveling salesman. Though it could and actually did when I sat down and started putting this together. My poems/songs rarely end up being about the same thing as when they started out. It could refer to an entertainer and that aspect was certainly in my mind but we're all sort of traveling salesmen too...my, how profound. :)
I kind of threw together some little bits of imagery I'd been hoarding for a while. I think they work well enough here. If the meter seems a bit odd, that's because it IS a song with some held syllables and so on. I have a tendency to write my songs far too strictly metered at times!