Gus wore a filthy brown
tunic, rope belt & no
shoes. Some called him
half wit & threw

dirt at him. To me
he was like Saint Francis
in disguise. A tattered
oracle. While stooping

in the winter-dead
weeds Gus preached
to the winter crows. Francis,
the protector, kissed the black

boils of the leper. A three
inch coating of clear sparkling
ice on the bare
trees the day Gus

vanished. I heard about
it while ordering jelly
donuts at Stella’s. He was found
in a throwaway Woody

Woodpecker sleeping bag
on the bank of Difficult
Creek. Froze to death
clenching a pack

of bologna. He planned
to divide the thick-cut
slices among cronies
at the shelter. It felt

like a steam shovel
shattered the bedrock
behind my ribs. Grief
longer than lifetimes, mourning

for more than one life. Saint
Francis kissed the black
boils of the lepers. Gus preached
to the winter crows.