Walking the highway
Counting the milestones
To flag down the cars
But none stop for me
And neither would I
Coat-less vagabond
All drivers thinking
Not to be trusted
Hobo reaching out
And his tricky games
Touch us for a buck
That's what they'd say
So another night
Under the bright stars
Which envelop me
With all their stories
No meal inside me
Just humble pie slices
From God's vast kitchen
I'll find a warm barn
Or sheltering tree
Not be a trouble
To any other soul
Until tomorrow
Image found at www.weathersnapshot.com
There are so many such people, some by choice, others by misfortune.
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The sense of the magical mystical hobo who might very well be so very much more.
ReplyDeleteYou have really captured the mind of a homeless wanderer.
ReplyDeleteSuch a sad story ... and I'm afraid happens often.
ReplyDeleteA different feeling all together
ReplyDeleteDo visit my blog at http://shilpachandrasekheran.blogspot.ae/?m=1
I love the humble pie slices from God's vast kitchen. Indeed, we'd all do well to sample them more often.
ReplyDeleteI think it is not as easy today to be a vagabond or hobo as it was say 50 years ago. I wonder if some of the secret hobo language of symbols still exists?
ReplyDeleteBecause you liked the first one here is a link to the 2nd room:
Rumors; The Second Room : The Cornflower Blue Powder Room