Monday, May 14, 2012


artwork: ralph murre

by Don Schaeffer

Just earning a living;
I look at his hair, thin
but he owns it.
When I see how he tries to part it
my heart opens.

There is a rim of something moist
and the grease has
spread to his shirt.
I decide I can forgive him for that.

I suppose he will go home
sometime where it's dark and
solitary. He will
wash and run

his hand over his scalp and
put those precious pants
over a chair, sink onto some kind of bed
and close his eyes.

~ previously published in Tryst