The stubble chinned,
Back bowed,
Walt Whitman
Emerging from the shadows
That envelops his rundown
Haunted shanty
Comes to feed
His host of disciples
The bread of life
Soaked in sour milk.
The supper waits
In cracked, dirty oil pans
Poisoning as it gives life.
His flock of followers
Perched anxiously betwixt
Two lines of power
Shedding the remnants
Of yesterday’s sacrament
In a modern art spackling
Atop the shiny sedans below.
The sheep know their shepherd
As they descend in mass
Surrounding the peddler
As he sells his wares.
His yard in shambles, his neighbors
Furious, he gives freely to his only friends
As they console his loneliness.
