Junk Wagon
Beyond hollyhocks and click bugs
back in the black cinder alley
came the muffled thud
of horseshoes, the long neigh,
quick flick of the fly-clouded tail.
Then the lurch, the slow
forward motion
of a wooden box on wheels
carrying rags, a sensuous tangle
of neighbors’ unneeded clothing.
When creaking wheels
were even with the back gate,
we heard a call part carnival shill
part bible beating preacher
and a good part Negro spiritual.
“Rags,” he said, or “Rag man.”
“Who’s got rags?” But it could have been
“Swing low,” or “Rock my soul.”
After supper, in late summer, we listened
to his deep bass pass the end
of the alley, move over a few streets, blend in
finally with cicada, whippoorwill, the low
sad trains, the huff and sigh of evening.
Beyond hollyhocks and click bugs
back in the black cinder alley
came the muffled thud
of horseshoes, the long neigh,
quick flick of the fly-clouded tail.
Then the lurch, the slow
forward motion
of a wooden box on wheels
carrying rags, a sensuous tangle
of neighbors’ unneeded clothing.
When creaking wheels
were even with the back gate,
we heard a call part carnival shill
part bible beating preacher
and a good part Negro spiritual.
“Rags,” he said, or “Rag man.”
“Who’s got rags?” But it could have been
“Swing low,” or “Rock my soul.”
After supper, in late summer, we listened
to his deep bass pass the end
of the alley, move over a few streets, blend in
finally with cicada, whippoorwill, the low
sad trains, the huff and sigh of evening.