Poetry Archives

Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
He worked thirty years on the railroad, ten hours a day,
     and his hands were tougher than sole leather.
He married a tough woman and they had eight children
     and the woman died and the children grew up and
     went away and wrote the old man every two years.
He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun
     telling reminiscences to other old men whose women
     were dead and children scattered.
There was joy on his face when he died as there was joy
     on his face when he lived—he was a swarthy, swaggering
     son-of-a-gun.