Poem - Mighty Joe Young

He Said His Name Was Joe Young

He said his name was Joe Young.

Once I'd pulled ahead and stopped

To intercept him at a pullout,

I teased and called him mighty.

His bicycle, encumbered, stem to stern,

By neatly rolled up bundles,

Seemed too heavy to be pushed,

As he was doing, much less ridden.

He wasn't a young man by any means,

But when I shook his hand, his grip exuded strength;

His eyes full of the merriment that comes only

From a heart that loves life and enjoys living it.

Joe's untrimmed beard covered his face and chest,

Blended at the sides with longish uncut hair.

Whether blond, red, or gray remained a mystery.

His lips, as he spoke, hid behind a wide red mustache.

We sat together on the tailgate of my pickup truck.

Our stories of adventure traveling back and forth.

My own seemed mild compared to his, but when I told my dream,

He laughed aloud in genuine appreciation. He understood.

He went his way, trudging byways, seeing the country, edge to edge.

I drove on, richer for having seen his eyes and heard his voice.

And when I, too, hit the road in months to come,

I pray I’ll cross paths again with mighty Joe Young,

Somewhere in America, living life his way.

Beverly Gaye Scofield

2014 All rights reserved

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was one of my true life people adventures. On one of the beautiful Tennessee backroads, I passed and then looked back at this old guy pushing his loaded bicycle along the roadside. I pulled off at the first wide spot and waited for him to catch up. He stopped. This is what happened. I had snacks with me, and we just visited. It was surreal and wonderful. Enjoy.