Don Bauder 4:30 p.m., Dec. 12
It was built whenever been there since I was a tike like scribes left us fat books that contain the odor of times forgotten filled with withered leaves
these that sang themselves disgusted with rhyme poet vagabondian airs beats of a different kind
a home for homeless thoughts for the thoughtless inspiration for the weathered
"come out of the cold, I will warm you with stories old as time"
retreat complete and sweet along the Oregon Trail with an Oliver Twist and lost forever Gone With the Wind
fetch me candles tall in an array of locations all about my traveled worn casing
bring about a cover to beat and smother cold while I discover the limits of the big bang Revelations Islands in the stream and Winner take nothing
wander I will the little art of returning again always under my hat or up a sleeve only return different a few more lines letters of gray hair stuffed in my pouches
come on alone the road a phone a call your best oldest friend its ringing why are you still in bed sleepy head?