upon seeing walt whitman on a scooter

is this what has become of you?

over a century of songs, editing,

changing the leaves of your grass

and now i see you singing them on a scooter

gliding in the park down dark pavement—

i thought you were stronger than that.

i thought you were too bearded

and rustic to ride a scooter in suburbia.


walt, where are you going on that scooter?

i saw you blazing down a street-hill

like a prarie wildfire. have you lost your mind

or have you set yourself free? what is the truth then?


i saw you waiting for the bus with your scooter

folded in your lap. the aluminium is striking.

i saw you buy that scooter from a clean shaven

vendor. his name was henry, and when he handed

you the change i heard you say “thanks thoreau.”


too bearded for aluminum, blazing

down a suburban-hill, clacking out leaves

of grass on pavement.