september, 1969.
he found himself waiting again.
out at the crossroads, out on the lam.
this time not running, this time by right.
a road-side hitcher waits for headlights.
"the blues won't bring me down."
that pick-up truck stopped.
"where you headed, kid?"
"back to the boardwalk coast to fix the wrong i did."
that old man would bring him just as far as he could.
his hellhound sniffing out for a trace of any good.
the hope he's chasing.
the blues he carried are dead and buried.
