The loner poem by David Michael Jackson

He lived in a small house beside the river.
We would only see him on the road,
riding a bicycle with a small motor,
an eccentric loner puttering by on that cycle.
He didn’t drink,
caused no trouble it seems,
we kids didn’t really know him
except for the motorized bicycle
and the river.
I guess every group of kids has a loner
full of mystery to
speculate about.
I think of him to this day.
Was he a poet or just a lonely man.
He is stuck forever in a memory that
forgets almost everyone, forgets
all the wasted or plentiful lives.
How do we not waste our lives?
The famous dead poets are merely names.
These words are just magnetic spots on
a disk somewhere.
If the bill is not paid, then
the ones will become zeros
and I will have puttered by.