Hobo poet

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

Hobo poet knows the long loneliness
drinks from forgotten springs and wells
pleasures himself amid hawthorn groves
and cries a year's worth of tears
every Harvest Moon
on the shoulder of a steadfast and 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 on an adventure

Hobo poet remembers and then forgets that he smells
would give all that 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 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