The Drifter (A poem by Blake Grantham)
A small town here,
a small town there;
sometimes I feel I’ve been everywhere.
I’m a drifter.
No real place
to call my home;
throughout the land I’ll always roam.
I’m a drifter.
The desert heat,
the northern chill;
I come and go just as I will.
I’m a drifter.
Vermont in the fall,
D.C. in the spring,
saying goodbye to an occasional fling.
I’m a drifter.
No clock to punch,
no place to be,
I’m just wandering endlessly.
I’m a drifter.
I’m a drifter.
I’m a drifter.