He Has A Name

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


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