Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers.
This country girl’s been waiting on a Chicago corner for a windy hour, ignoring creepy words and gestures.
All I want is home and central heating.
“We’re gonna make it big in Chi-town,” you said.
I hug my guitar instead of you.
You’re late. Again. I’m hungry. Again.
Finding a sheltered corner, I strap on my guitar and sing home songs, which don’t fit the hustle, but folks stop, listen, slip some bills or change in my cup.
I play until my numb fingers can’t pluck steel.
You appear, grin, reach for my cup.
Not this time.