Willie’s Hand

In the days on Princeton Road

My neighborhood was haunted.

Willie the Dumpman

Ambled down Golden Acres,

His voice- biting as an old hand saw-

Calling to us, “Come, come, see my handless wrist.”

In the days of Bunyan and the Blue Ox,

Willie, it was said, ran the dump.

Like all men, he also worked in the mill.

Willie’s hand got caught in

A splitter-saw and rode down

The Big Manistee with all

The two-man sawed trees.

I met Willie in my dreams one night.

He beckoned with his brown-blood-dried wrist.

His lumberjack flannels hanging like

Over-soaked leaves.  Willie never hurt anyone.

Just scared us. A little.

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