The old poet is a tramp

                               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.


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