Odd Fellow
On my way to work,
I gave a ride to a bedraggled hitchhiker.
He wore no clothes, was all skin and bones.
When he jumped into the front seat of my pickup,
His wide smile a picket fence of broken teeth,
I could smell him, at once; he was a bog.
Why had I decided to assist such an odd fellow?
Was it that I felt sorry for him,
That gaunt, naked scarecrow teetering at roadside?
"Where you going?" I asked. "Anywhere at all."
"I'm heading for work." "That's fine. Thanks."
He turned on the radio, tuned in static.
I stared straight ahead, didn't dare agitate him,
By switching the dial to a station
Or saying anything more. Then we were there.
He stepped down, from the cab, onto the parking lot.
His stench stayed behind.
I was absent from work, after that.
10/28/08 - (1)
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