The old men cluster and cluck
On politics and weather
At an hour when I’m sleeping
And dreaming—always—of trains.
They’ve solved all of the world’s woes
By the time I’ve had coffee.
So when I stumble into
Their brightly-lit lair of talk,
All of the donuts are sold.
They stare in contempt at me,
Shifty village liberal
With my long hair, beard, earrings,
And the ones who know me smile
The toothy grin of the shark
As I take my coffee, beat
A harried, hasty retreat
Away from their rugged world
Of tractors, combines, and guns
Back to my books, my old books,
Waiting patiently for me
To load them aboard those trains.
No comments:
Post a Comment