felony phil

The guys at the desk called him "Felony Phil,"
though he’d never committed a crime.
Someone said it one day and it stuck, goes the tale,
and he didn’t object at the time.

He camped in the doorway of Engine House 3,
with two bags and one blanket, one book,
and a dog name of Bunko, he told everyone,
who, in fact, looked much more like a crook.

He woke up one morning, a cold day in May,
packed up without saying a word.
Took his bags and his blanket and that single tome.
They found him at Peacock and Third.

His body was crumpled and cold to the touch.
He’d left but a note to be read.
It was simple and short and right to the point:
“My name,” he had written, “is Fred.”