The hobo, seen through willows
past my screen,
walking shell side of a bayou
highway,
half his life in a poled bag
over his shoulder...
beyond, past, away
from my screen
this cold, slight sunrise
morning...
and I, seated on old wood,
warm, sock-swaddled feet,
watch him.
The black bayou water
flows past us both...
waters of no passage.
one of my faves from you Elys.. I've always wondered how they got that bag to stay up on that pole. this poem's texture is resigned.. still...I would go...just for the freeedom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice one keep writing........