RUFUS

 

Rufus said his prayers, and we pushed him

Out the boxcar door. He hung up in

A barbwire coil as we clattered down

Our sordid track. We spooned up all his

Beans then sat smoking his tobacco.

We tore his bedroll but found nothing,

yellowed letters with tears, pictures

Of his Pa—our shame before God.

He’d judged us on those scrubby plains while

We lay in straw corners, our guts full

Of hatred for what we'd taken, for

his crooked teeth and his shuffling gait,

But he'd tasked our generosity.