Nobody knows anything

Nobody knows what is going to happen to any of us

Except the fore lorn rags of growing old

In the immensity of it

I Moan and groan for the things I must do in this weary world

Rolling my bones

Alone

Rounding around 7^th avenue

In these tragic hands I do see a tired old man in the calluses on my palms and the wrinkles in my skin

In America

Born alone and stupid

There must be an alternative to the American dream of capitalism and money grubbing

That consumes the west

The east

The north

The south and anything in between

Across golden folds of America

 I need a supplication in this dream

In all the road going

In the madness of my mind

I seek the end of my travels

To rest these tired feet

From all the searching

To end at the doorstop

Of the woman I love