The old poet is a tramp.
Something there is in me that loves
this heavy railroad bridge.
Like an Osiris-ridge
of rust the gyrfalcon oar-hovers
in the antique poem by the worn-out
Beat (Muskeg Al, or Jerry
Don Teo). So very
wistful, warbling his old trompette
marine beside the drowsy Miss...
You have to be a hobo
just a little, Jo
to know. How mutterland is bliss.
She reaches timely tendrils now
deep through backwaters
of still memory. Neighbors,
children... chicory, mosquitoes... O.
Evening stretching infinite
farm roads toward sunset.
& you, caught in a net
of yearning (fluttery disquiet).
She’s your Dream, old trampoline.
& I would have you meet
my own familiar fleet
amigo – invisible yet, still gone;
warm shadow, like a humming bird
who beams from evening sky.
Love is perfection (sigh).
A misty rainbow, Hobo said.