Classic Poem

Billy Frailly's got a new shirt,
shaved and walking down the road
ready for anything.
When I was in fifth grade
Billy powered his bike up Church Hill
(black Stetson, yellow kerchief).
I helped him shovel out Mrs. Cowell's
parking place. He did most of the work,
but he split the money fifty-fifty.
He's an outcast now;
no frontier he can reach.
But he's not crying, and we know
there is no virtue, only consequence
and the sometimes music
of a new shirt.

Woodstock