Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2020
San Francisco, 1977
I sat by my window and listened
to the crying of Carlos Santana and the wind
His guitar told stories
of home in MΓ©xico and how he yearned for it
and the wind kept howling along
as if it tried to bring him back
and I wished for Carlos to be home
and I wished for the wind to carry him there
and I wished for myself to be somewhere else
where the city isn't as big
and the people aren't as greedy
and the love comes naturally, not for fifty bucks a night

So I sat by my window
and listened to the sound of Santana's guitar
and the wind crying
and I understood
as I wept along.
Marco
Written by
Marco  23
(23)   
322
       Tyler Matthew and Bogdan Dragos
Please log in to view and add comments on poems