After Thoughts
The Poetry of J. Hodges


Forces, subject to forces and we complain,
Don’t like it, we complain again and it becomes a habit
The old man crouched with a sign,
Hungry, cold, barely moving
Without a word, not one, no complaints ever
If I could, would I have the guts,
Would I have the guts to never complain
A better man than I sits alone, this old man
This old man, there, each day
until he dies, teaches me
incomprehensible humility and
the lessons I have yet to learn