The old poet is a tramp

FARM ROADS

                               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.

1.25.16