Poetry

"Hermit"

A young hermit lives near us in

where someone thought the split-levels

and ranches, plotted cul-de-sacs,

cropped up and trimmed, would make

a farmer's field a comfy, roomy

ostrich hole.

And he, you know,

walks

with a beard

and umbrella

to town

on the median strip.

And the kids found his house

the hard way, walking in the woods,

and it was haunted with boards

where rustic windows should be

and boulder stone walls

and no grass

and a junker in the yard.

So they ran from the man they didn't see.

But I do, five days a week,

on the road,

back from work,

and on Sundays

in the suv.