The hobo, seen through willows
past my screen,
walking shell side of a bayou
highway,
half his life in a poled bag
over his shoulder...
beyond, past, away
from my screen
this cold, slight sunrise
morning...
and I, seated on old wood,
warm, sock-swaddled feet,
watch him.
The black bayou water
flows past us both...
waters of no passage.
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/have-you-ever-seen/
