He is always walking, walking
noiseless, in the bitter cold.
A single, slender stick a’ shoulder
strong and sure enough to hold:

Blue skies pulled from the month of June
Pink Cloud Beauties, full in bloom.

Here he plods beneath the viaduct,
where all around him pigeons strut.
Here he slogs a neighborhood street,
from dawn to dusk in booted feet.

Near the park he is trekking, trekking
through the school he marches on.
Through warm windows they are watching,
watching him trudge along, alone.