On Mickle Street

I met a man
who knew a
woman, an old
woman, who,
as a little child,
knew Walt
Whitman in
Camden.

Wonder what
that was like?
Sitting on the
stoop with
Walt Whitman.
Having some
vague, childish
notion that
this gray-maned
old man was
different, special,
one for the
ages.

Perhaps you
showed him
your favorite
marble or
demonstrated
your knowledge
of   a
top?   Maybe
you came to
him with
a dirty
face or
mud-pie
hands?

It gets humid
in Camden.   The
river gives
off  a pungent  river
smell.   Various
merchants hawk
their wares
up and down
Mickle Street.
Fishmongers, milk-
men, bread-
men and the
man who
delivers ice.

Walt Whitman
never seems
to do much
of anything
except sit
and look
and listen.

That's why
you like
him.... he
does

listen.