Just a dead Sunday on a business trip
Found me in a park with my guitar
San Diego makes me feel like an old hick
I don’t care, just take a swig of something dark.
I grab a C chord and start a Greg Brown piece
Down the path I see blue eyes in a fine dopplebock
She passes, wow they could sell ads on those cheeks
Two steps along, she wirls around to look back
My innocent hands sweat and I expect a frown
She pops her ear buds out and smiles instead
“Were you just playing, “If I had known”?”
Ok smooth and graciously I say, “Yep”
She laughs to show me her ipod is playing “Early”
Surprised, “So you have great tastes for one so young”
“Oh I love listening to Greg when I’m lonely
For home back in Iowa or just my mum.”
“I know every Greg Brown song, True!
Now you, I’d expect a sappy Jack Johnson tune.”
That got us both laughing, I offered her a brew.
“Sure, but I really supposed to be back home soon.”
Stories shared about family’s divorce when she was one
Her dad ran off and made a success of himself.
“He sent checks but we were all but forgotten
I think Greg’s music saved mom’s mental health.”
I showed pictures of the family in Wisconsin
And recalled Greg in a chainsaw muscle shirt
“Aha” she blurted, “that was the reason”
Mom named me Steele, that’s it; it for sure.”
More common bonds formed like Bohemian roots
Both saw Greg and Garnett at the Great River Fest
Her mother brought him a jar of canned fruits
And Grandad’s Bluff provided plenty of rest.
We shared names, and myspace addresses
I mentioned my journey as a songwriter
“Let’s play the Poet Game behind the fences”
She winked, “Just kidding you could be my father”
An awkward silence followed, so I started playing.
We sang about that little Iowa town, “Early”
“It’s late, my roommate will start worrying.
You know if you were my Dad I’d love you dearly.”
She said, “If I had only known”
My real dad plays cool guitar, is cute
Aspires to sing and write like Master Brown
I’d howl to the moon, rooty toot toot.”
“You are a folk angel brought to me today.
We have to make this meeting only a start.”
She took my guitar and put it out of the way.
Kissed me whispering, “You sweet old fart”
Folk Angel by Dave Schipper © 2007 Rose Riversongs
San Diego park pic Lips
