Monday, October 25, 2010


A large cardboard box was his abode,
Willie was a bum according to city code,
Behind a building his home he made,
During long hot days it offered him shade,
A lamp, an ottoman, a seaman’s trunk,
He gathered treasures from people’s junk,
He rode a bicycle as he covered the streets,
With always a smile for people he’d meet,
Willie claimed to be a pioneering man,
Using everything he could from off the land,
He worked on odd jobs whenever he could,
Honest and forthright, you knew where he stood,
Perhaps a broken heart had made him this way,
Or perhaps it was booze, I’ve heard people say,
Willie drew laughs due to the life he led,
But he’d been a doctor; he chose this life instead,
Not willing to permit his life to simply fade,
He appeared in a clean suit for every parade,
With flags on his handle bars and tooting his horn,
He let no one forget that he had been born,
Willie was a fixture for years in his place,
But life was getting harder, you could tell by his face,
Then one day I heard Willie had died,
I think I was the only one who cried,
He had given me his poetry which I still keep,
The content was varied, the images rich and deep,
His poetry haunted me, I could not sleep,
I don’t quite know why his death bothered me,
Except he was one with the world and meant to be,
Someday he’ll be remembered, because you see,
I had his words published, as his legacy.

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