by Charles Farrell Thielman ~ kokua ~
Standing On Iced Gravel, Clipboard Engloved
Sky roiled gray cursive, dark blue dawn
Twenty two degrees, storm blown eighteen fresh,
etched power lines, boxcars and truck windows
Raw bone chips speared on freight office doors
A train’s bright lamp hauls a dark artery, red winged
blackbirds peck grains spilled on creosote ties
A face framed by boxcar wood and metal
A hobo gazes out, salvation parka zipped tight
His beam of thought grazes gray and white gravel
He sees me standing, slips back, back into shadows
Office windows reflect this passage, he has a name