a working man

Old Man.
He come every day
at twilight time.
I hears the bony drum,
cicada’s hum.
He wear raggedy clothes,
canvas cap,
yellowy beard.
And his work he does.
Cranks that gear handle
round and round.
Powers up the tiny lights.
in the pinwheel spiralled
sky of night.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s