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The rail-thin farm boy,
Such as he is at age fifty-one--
Still innocent in some ways,
Corrupted in others--
Preserves a fresh face and wholesome smile
As if he just stepped off a thick-treaded tractor
After baling hay or harrowing soil
In the corny cornfields of Nebraska, or Kansas.
He has demons, this one,
Acquired through hardships, self-imposed;
A rough path awaits him, if he sticks to it,
A process of casting off impudent imps,
Ballybogs and boo-keeds.
I offer him guidance, but I cannot cleanse him,
Cure him, nor convince him
(Or even myself)
That all will be well.