poem #2, March 31, 2016


He wore a pork-pie hat
Salt and pepper wool
And never spent a day without gin

This hat a salute to or remnant of civil formality
propriety, I guess
looked like a golfer from the nineteen-twenties
or an old Irishman, bound for the pub
Why this, when no thought of church or school
and when his own home seemed a prison
if endured for more than an hour?

Fist fights were his amusement
The streets his turf
anyone who’d been around at all knew he was trouble
and walked on the other side of the street

With no desire for anything beyond his sight
He bent life to his will
And wondered at the men who lived indoors
In offices and rooms.

Copyright 2016

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