Karma
 
In the parched Mojave Desert,
I’m workin’ a summer job
on a railroad survey crew
in '64 when Larry taunts
and kills a rattler 
with our brush-cuttin’ axe,
disrespects it in death,
hurls it into the spines
of a 
Later, a train surprises Larry,
kills him standin’ between tracks
at the end of our lunch break 
minutes after I leave his side.
A butchered serpent,
a mangled body.
I ask myself, “Is this what 
they mean by karma?”
 
Seekin’ experiences to write about,
three years later I get dropped off
alone in L.A.’s squalid skid row
with coins, a razor, a spare pair
of underpants in my pocket,
two bucks hidden in my socks.
After a few days three buddies
and I hike from a rescue mission 
to a jungle next to train tracks,
a ravaged landscape where we dine 
on peppery Mulligan stew served 
in a rusty can offered by an old hobo 
missin’ teeth, wearin’ greasy overalls.
While we’re waitin’ for a boxcar
to fling ourselves aboard,
my buddies size up a wino
shufflin’, stumblin’, shoutin’ nonsense.
Willie says, “I could sure use his coat.
Mine’s ratty as hell. Let’s roll him.”
“Nahhh,” I say. “That’d be bad karma.”
He asks, “What’s karma?”
I answer, “Let me tell you a story.”