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.
this is very vivid, the ending particularly is excellent
ReplyDelete"Bindle" is a great word, and I think you did it justice here.
ReplyDeleteI especially enjoy this poem along with the image. I believe they both extend each other, yet each stands alone beautifully.
ReplyDelete