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Come marching one
Folder:
NINE POEMS The drifter in pale linen.
He comes in the middle of the day
after a storm
has washed away the
Grime from our houses and
the bird leavings off the cars in our tar black asphalt driveways
and into the beige concrete gutters.
He says he’s not from around here
This I find I can Believe
But when he says he’s
"Just a Drifter,
Simple drifter on a road to no where in partic-u-lar",
His eyes shimmer, show me some deceit.
Quick sideways wishes.
I simply can’t
Believe in Him.
