Poem: The Social Worker &&

Wednesday, August 14, 1996

The Social Worker

Years ago in Glasgow

callow youth

from troubled folk

and folks in trouble

I made my crust.

As Canutian agent

I turned no tides but

sometimes struck

a chord.

I recall a twelve year

young car rustler,

an unjoyous rider

who always torched his

purloined steeds.

I queried his fiery mania

and he explained in half-smart word


I gave him a pair of


Bill Anderson