Hobo poet

Hobo poet worships the spirits of the hedge
a dry ditch makes the perfect bed
he does not judge the weeds
but envies the nimble excitement of the bees

Hobo poet knows aloneness
drinks from forgotten wells
pleasures himself amid the hawthorn
cries blue moon tears on the shoulder of the stoical oak

Hobo poet feels at ease
in the strangest of places
wakes up besides a silent sea
breathes in life’s airs and graces

Hobo poet pockets abandoned words

Hobo poet skirts the towns
lest the townsfolk accuse him of stealing their dreams
and put him in the stocks as a lesson to their children

Hobo poet dares the young boy with the whittled stick
to join him and run away

Hobo poet remembers and then forgets he smells
would give all he owns to touch a pretty woman’s skin

Hobo poet dries his socks upon the brambles
and rubs his fingers between his toes
till the raw gaps gleam

Hobo poet bimbles
as purposefully as a cloud
and when he is sure nobody can hear him
sings bashfully to God

Hobo poet leaves his hobo mark
on the lintel of every kindness

Hobo poet knows not to argue with ghosts

Hobo poet often dreams of home
wakes
moves on