One-Legged Walter

He always made me wonder.
Eyes crow-footed from sun,
on snow.
Body slumped,
from slack times.
He lived in Sullivan’s junk-yard,
in a gutted ’51 Chevy.
On the floorboard,
tattered blankets, neatly sewn together,
made his bed.
Sunkist orange crate,
along the passenger door,
held rice, beans, flour,
and Annie Green Springs.
Coleman stove
warmed his food,
and body.
Up front,
floor to cracked windshield,
a pine-board bookcase
with Miller, Michener, Kant,
and Freud.