Willie

Willie

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.