Hotel Hippie

He smells like a hotel hippie

The kind that lives off continental breakfasts and liquid coffee creamer

Has a sleeping bag in the trunk of their car that smells like smoke

The Kind that keeps a notebook with the names of people he has met

Has worn out sandals and hairy toes

Instruments are no stranger to him

be it mandolin guitar or sun-dried gourd

The sun falls on his hair perfectly and it's not even rational

High school dropout

or at least he says he is

buys ice cream for little kids when their's drop

Weaves dandelions into pretty crowns for those not so pretty

Wears a million hair ties on his wrist because someone always needs one

a red lumpy beanie that some girl named Janie made

You can almost forget he made his mother cry the day he left

sobbing on the front porch steps asking him not to go

You can almost overlook the faint scars of cigarette burns on the back of his legs

You can almost pretend that he doesn't shake if you ask where he's’ from  

You want to ignore these things

You want to ask why he holds people's hands so carefully

ask what happened to Janie

ask why he never talks of his family.

But you don’t.

You let him live out his own romantic version of his life

or maybe you just want to believe that's how he lives

He never stays long

Just long enough for you to miss him

just long enough to regret not asking him to stay.