Harry Gallagher


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 –




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