SOLOMON CREEDY

I don't much like the cold
he said when he showed up
that day wearing feed sacks
over his head. He lived
down by the tracks in a hut
he's somehow thrown together:
sheets of corrugated tin,
scraps of wood from God
knows where. In warm weather
it served well enough, we
guessed, but a winter storm
like this one . . .

He stood there shivering.
Come in our teacher said
and pointed him toward
the big stove that kept
our one room schoolhouse
toasty warm. He stomped snow
from his boots, held his hands
out to the heat, gave three or
four deep sighs, then left without
a word. Our teacher explained
that some men who came back
from the war were not the same
as when they left. He was such
a gentle boy, she said, and he
was really good at spelling. It's
such a shame. After that we
weren't afraid of him as much,
but still a little bit.