He travelled in a business suit by train.
By day he would sit in the vista cruiser.
From his brief case he'd pull out white bread sandwiches and eat.
The bones of the world slid past, past, past him.
On a yellow legal pad he would write as fast as he saw.
At night he would get out at the first station after dark.
He'd find a diner, eat some soup.
Then he'd staple some of his yellow sheets of paper to phone poles.
Before dawn, he would sleep, sitting up in the train station.
He'd take the first train out.
Leaving his poems to flutter like bandages in the wind.