Here is where drifters break their trek, come night. When freights slow up at dark, on depot street A furtive, grubby band descends to beat On doors and beg at shops, eschewing light And badge; then, one by one, they drop from sight Down the cinder trail to where drifters meet For potluck mulligan and brushwood heat . . . To borrow makings and recast their flight. And this, the jungle caravansary That only those tatterdemalions know Whose horizons are railed and profligate. And here, in their hospice of urgency, They boil failings and rags at ten below And bide the highball of the climate freight. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PROTESTATION by THOMAS CAREW ONLY ONE MOTHER by GEORGE COOPER SIDNEY GODOLPHIN by CLINTON SCOLLARD THE LEPER (2) by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS THE BALLAD OF A DAFT GIRL by DOROTHY ALDIS THE FUGITIVE by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: DEEDS MIGHT HAVE BEEN by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |