Harry Gallagher

Shelterman

I am your leaning post

in a howling force nine;

a bent apothecary

in distressed apparel.

A threadbare Superman,

shirt ragged holey,

with soles worn through

‘neath raggedy red boots.

Picking up every needy stray,

every wind damaged waif

who blew this way.

Every snowcapped old chap,

every drunk lame old dame.

And every hinge who’s broken free

and every latch without a key;

you all fall through the door of me –

Shelterman.

Advertisements

3 comments

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 )

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s