Strange bird, <br />His song remains secret. <br />He worked too hard to read books. <br />He never heard how Sherwood Anderson <br />Got out of it, and fled to Chicago, furious to free himself <br />From his hatred of factories. <br />My father toiled fifty years <br />At Hazel-Atlas Glass, <br />Caught among girders that smash the kneecaps <br />Of dumb honyaks. <br />Did he shudder with hatred in the cold shadow of grease? <br />Maybe. But my brother and I do know <br />He came home as quiet as the evening. <br /> <br /> <br />He will be getting dark, soon, <br />And loom through new snow. <br />I know his ghost will drift home <br />To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone, <br />Whittling a root. <br />He will say nothing. <br />The waters flow past, older, younger <br />Than he is, or I am.<br /><br />James Arlington Wright<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/youth-43/
