All told
The bridge in Paris
The adverted suicide
The voice which said
Check you out
The art house of the old mystic Jew
The steeples and women
The cars, particular roads, the church pews
And poetry of rest stops
Nights with the circus on the road wherever
The books which kept gathering around
The collections of maps, and bird books
And sighs, defined him

stacked in the trunks of old cars.
His life was a timely text of encouragement
Written by an unseen hand
That got it written, despite him
His life was mowed in the grass of global parks
He was street art
But written with a holy quill peacock feather.
He obviously heard birds and angels as a kid
And the rest is history.
In his dreams he wore a
Suit of chimes
And a jacket made of
Disco ball.
He reflected
More than projected.
All told,
He was ok
With that
By the end.
And an eagle
Landed nearby
When he died
No-one knew why.

And a rainbow trout jumped out the water just then.