Marco steps from the forest
twigs hitched to his
long brown overcoat
two filthy towels spill
from his backpack folded
white paper jams a pocket
He walks the two lanes
four miles to Santiago de Compostela
to do his weekend business
and knows the more color and
reach to his poems the more
eyes will dance over the words and
the nicer the dinner he’ll enjoy
on days his words lay gray
and crippled the tourists don’t
gather and he dines free
trash side
in either case
loneliness pulls up a chair
and they share
whatever the day delivers