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Posted by MFish

He walked alone,
over the bridge,
heading for town,
nine miles away.
He didn't have wheels,
for his work was gone.
He slept in the field,
with his old sleeping bag,
using a drop cloth, beneath
to avoid the dampness.
In the morning hours,
he arose from his place,
to look for some work,
so he could pay his way.
It was, for him,
another most beautiful
day. A day to rejoice,
about his lonely life.
Where else, in the World,
would I rather be,
than being able to write an Ode,
such as remembered by me?

A Comment by Loy

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Loy • 12/27/2020 at 11:14PM • Like 1 Profile

Nice poem and story

A Comment by MFish

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MFish • 12/27/2020 at 11:44PM • Like Profile

A composite of several happenings. I did sleep in a field south of Bellingham, when the Strawberries in Lynden were done. I was just out of the eighth grade.

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