HEre was a man who was known
    as an Oregon poet.

He never wasted words, either.
    He wrote a poem

Every day, rain or shine, and so
    he had some

rain poems and some shine poems
    and if people

came to him saying, sir, give us a book
    he would turn

and rummage in desk drawers
    or grope

along shelves in the kitchen.
    Pretty soon

there was their book, bright as
    Sunday morning

but sharp, too, like bottle glass.
    He'd hand

it to them carefully, carefully.
    And it was

their hint. After that they'd have to
    look out for themselves,

and that, I guess, was his Oregon
    message.