Elegy for Hustle-man by John Miller

                Tim Vrtiska CC



​Elegy for Hustle-man
for James William Griffin


There was no handshake, no, I’m James –  
folks call me Hustle-man. Bucket in-hand, 
you skipped all that, and car-washed your way 

to pocket-money. And hard as you worked, 
folks offered you jobs, even places to stay 
to get it together. But they never quite got you 

that you preferred sleeping rough, how you 
thrived on the hustle: scrounging and hauling
your way to becoming a neighborhood fixture.

And even though it’s been a couple years since 
the cops found you gunshot, I still hear you 
scold me every time I make a sandwich: 

Aw, come on, man, don’t scrimp on the mayo.
I miss that voice, all the nights it crooned 
the Pointer Sisters’ “Fire” block by block. 

But the main thing, what I’ll never forget
is what you taught me about dignity, James.
Even when I blew you off, had nothing to haul, 

or didn’t buy your latest dumpster find, you’d 
refuse my apologies, silence me with a quick
side-eye, and say: God never made anything sorry.

Hailing from Eugene Walter's Kingdom of Monkeys, John Miller was sent so frequently to look up words during supper, he toted a dictionary to the table. Paper Nautilus Press published his chapbook, _Heat Lightning_ in 2017. A Pushcart nominee, Miller’s poetry has appeared in Rockvale Review, Kindred, Lahar Berlin, and elsewhere.

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