Whiskers a wren could nest in.

Cheekbones with an inlay of sun tan.

Shrewd eyes … ox shoulders …

He passed us in the rain tonight

Among the ragtags of South State Street

And he had a big red umbrella keeping off the rain

And a gunny sack under his left arm.

I could understand the old wilderness man

And the wish of his heart for a spot of red

In the mass of dark umbrellas

And I don’t care what he had in the gunny sack.

Kittens, pups, bread scraps—I don’t care.

But why did he rush along like a city-broke newspaper delivery horse?

Why did he walk furiously like a messenger boy after a tip or detectives going to make a raid?

I saw the smut of the city on the wilderness.

I said here’s a wolf turned alley dog.