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Caleb

Red hair
curls about the breeze.
Cowboy hat crazy,
his smiles and laughs
infect me with affection,
as he plays his guitar for me,
staring vibrantly into my eyes,
I smile to feel
the attraction of his soul.
Wild words, string from his lips
as we stand smoking our smokes,
a little too close,
but no discomfort follows.
He reaches deep into the pocket
of his dirty, ripped jeans,
giving me a token of friendship,
and I am touched.
Jokingly, he calls himself white trash,
and laughs out loud,
but secretly means it.
Soon, the night over
I watch him stride away
with the bouncing step of youth.
guitar strung across his back.
Caleb, you are no white trash,
you are beautiful.

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