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Hobo poet

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


Hobo poet knows the long loneliness
drinks from forgotten wells
pleasures himself amid the hawthorn

cries blue moon tears on the shoulder of a 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 silently skirts any fearful town
lest the townsfolk accuse him of stealing their dreams
and put him in the stocks
as a warning to their children


Hobo poet dares the young boy with the dreamy gaze
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 pretty skin


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


Hobo poet bimbles
as aimlessly as a lazy cloud
and when he is sure that 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



Picture
   © Stephen Hancock 2023                                                                                                                                                                Energy is Eternal Delight