wily red hair and voice weathered by ancient ocean
he is the voice of michael, providing reason and meaning
he sits on a stool, attached to his guitar by a plain leather strap
his eyes are closed and maybe watery
he'll finish the set
and accept a pint from a patron
and stare into his glass
a sad crystal ball
he'll go home to no one and cry for himself
and for Mary's Michael
he'll remember his child
and the small free bird's fall
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