For Iowa Blackie, National Hobo King 1993
A lonely, warm railroad soul winters down
Among the forgotten educated
Margins of the soft and dirty river town.
His eyes are creased with dances of the late
Summer road. Now a patient stream of words
Thumps from him in a happy hour
Giving the gifts of experience and burns
Which tumble him to rage sweet and flower.
The last I saw of him was hate of me
For cutting him off at the stroke of two.
I said "Get out" with malice rarely seen
And he struck me with such awful truths
I could not bear the sight of him. This life
Is too short, Iowa, to hold such strife.
July 1998
July 1998
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