I can see the trees behind his eyes as he stands,
motionless, at the windowsill, looking out onto the
buildings and grey of our world.
Sometimes, I caught a glimpse of that old, old smile
as he stretched out on a blanket in the park, soaking
up the weak sunshine like tonic.
I knew this day would come.
I don't let the tears fall today, squeezed back into
some distant corner of my eyes. That statue that held
him an ironic prisoner grants him
Liberty. I sing for him, sing his farewell in the dark
of night, softly at first;
Soon I sing myself on board that midnight train to Georgia.
Author notes
Gladys Knight and the Pips;
Midnight Train to Georgia.
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