And when the ragged stranger came to call,
His profile, loosely sketched against the light,
I waited for his steps to rise and fall
Into a distant place and out of sight.
Crouched low, my clammy hands stuck to my hair,
I noticed, as his head turned very slow,
The rugged skin, the whiskers and the stare
Of eyes where love and hope had failed to flow.
At once, his mittened hands were on the door,
Worn fingers, curled and edging for the latch.
Heavy tread on our creaking, wooden floor,
The passing of a cigarette and match.
A voice that wheezed "I thank you…very kind,"
Ebbing to the street, "..any knives to grind?"
Martin T. Hodges
Posted over on his site Square Sunshine
Listed at #43 on Magpie Tales 36
Image borrowed from Bing.
2 comments:
I adored this piece when I first read it at Martin's place. It brings to mind a sweet little poem from my childhood.
The Scissor-Man
Sing a song of Scissor-men,
Mend a broken plate,
Bring your knives and garden shears,
I'll do them while you wait.
Buzz-a-wuzz. Buzz-a-wuzz.
Fast the wheel or slow,
Ticker Tacker. Ticker Tack.
Rivets in a row.
Sing a song of Scissor men,
Sitting in the sun,
Sing it when the day begins,
Sing it when it's done.
Be it hard or be it soft,
Here's a jolly plan;
Sing to make the work go well,
Like the Scissor-man.
M. Nightengale
Sweet it is, and thanks for sharing.
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