On descending light,
the pink shore of evening—
before me:
brittle, dusty old negroes step
slowly up
through accordian doors,
and
disappear—
streetcar’d away
to greener pastures.
In the
chariot of the poor,
a transistor sways
back-and-forth,
back-and-forth, slowly
on a frayed leather strap:
In the sweet—by-and-by
we will meet—
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
