The Only Road Left to Roam

As I read the paper and drink McDonald's senior coffee, from a couple of booths away, I hear the funky strumming of a guitar: driving, bluesy, percussive, syncopated. The musician is well groomed and well dressed. Out comes a soulful ballad of hard times. I write down the chorus on my newspaper:

Everyone knows how this story goes,
There is no end.
The only road left to roam is the lonely road home,
You've got to let me in.

I walk over and say, "Good sounds, man. I'm Geoff. You write that?"

"I'm Mark. Yep, I wrote it. I've been on the road for quit a while. Headin' for California. I've had lots of time to write down my story."

"Where ya from, Mark?"

"Indiana. I've been takin' engineering at Purdue, but it wasn't workin' out."

"So, who's that you're singin' about?"

"Oh, she lives in LA, that's where I'm headed."

I go back to finish reading the paper, and then as I drive home, I see Mark, with guitar and backpack, thumbing on the I-25 southbound ramp, holding a neatly printed sign that reads: "Albuquerque"