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.

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