But where are your bums?


Sure your library is new, it’s clean, it’s state of the art

But where are the bums…

You have Kerouac, Thoreau, Emerson, and other friends of the state

But where are the bums…

Know of a place where the stench varied, booth to booth

Depending on the weather, the heat, or day of the week

But there were the bums.

Southwest on the map

Vietnam vets

The Lucky that made it over the line

Or the natives that use to own the land

Humanity best served like a really bad run pot-luck supper

Instead of just mashed, mashed, mashed white potatoes

One should lust after a fine novel

Not being able to wait to take it home

To be alone with its time worn pages

Your library is becoming a fine institution

But where are your bums?

Phoenix reserves a patch of cells in my brain

People surviving and trying to learn more than their parents could have taught them

Pandering outside the lobby, bibles held just to hold

Hold on to anything

A colorful scene each day it became

Not finely arranged, or leaving you too estranged

But with lack of rain, greedy sun

A steady flow of righteous “bums”

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