Monday, July 5, 2010

Bindle

Bindle

In old cartoons, the hobo shoulders a sagging,
spotted bundle knotted on a stick. A heavy balloon.
His sadness is clownish. We draw a frown around
his mouth, pencil tears on his cheeks and nudge him
alongside the railroad tracks. The bindle rests
its curved cheek on his back, a sleeping child.
Each day, we hurl ourselves into the unmade.
As we move, we make. We parcel the brightest
and sharpest pieces, keep them hoisted, held.

3 comments

  1. this is very vivid, the ending particularly is excellent

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  2. "Bindle" is a great word, and I think you did it justice here.

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  3. I especially enjoy this poem along with the image. I believe they both extend each other, yet each stands alone beautifully.

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