After James Wright
I could hear him sobbing
as with slow trembling hands
he carefully packed his bag.
Tears streaming, he slouched to the door
bent at the waist, shoulders heaving.
From the window I watched him leave.
He stopped at the end of the driveway,
shook his arms, straightened his jacket,
lifted his bowed head and shoulders.
Looking both ways before crossing the street
he strode off into the dark to his next call,
cheeks already drying and rosy.