Jimmy

Across the street, you sit cross-legged and bare,

my friend and I suspect at your stare.

I’m sorry that I — I don’t know your words

but in four weeks, I’ll be gone and you’ll be deathly unheard.

Jimmy. Jimmy, don’t say a word,

sit on your porch and fix at the birds.

Sixty, seventy, or eighty years old

I don’t know but I’ve seen my twenty untold.

In four weeks I’ll be stripped up and back to my school

and you’ll, still be here alone in the soil.