Between the Ledger and the Open Road
The morning ledger opens clean and wide,
A world of columns, balanced, neat, and tied.
Polished shoes against the marble floor,
Quiet courtesies by the heavy door.
I count the coins, I note the steady stream,
Holding the line of another man’s dream.
By midday comes the warmth of wood and stone,
The sweet yeast rising in a space my own.
Golden loaves that cooling racks defend,
Hard-earned crusts shaped by a quiet hand.
A separate life where simple fires burn,
And every loaf is something true I earn.
Then dusk arrives, the daytime voices cease,
The quiet road becomes an honest peace.
A thumb against the switch, the engine wakes,
A low, dark thrum the empty highway takes.
Cold evening air that brushes through the gear,
Where crowded thoughts unravel and run clear.
No balance sheets to bind, no bread to tend,
Just tarmac winding past the river bend.
A silent man beneath an open sky,
Watching the hurried world go drifting by—
Carrying neither profit, praise, nor name,
Only the steady, solitary flame.