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A Hobo’s Heart
Across the tracks of night
I wander, fed at encampments
of love and woman, breast
and a warm blanket
cuddling beyond the chafe
of another harsh day
in the field
of tongues, judgements,
someone's climb up babel's tower
of wealth.
My back.

I scrape against the wheels
of our finest hour as a nation,
leaving shards of soul
under the fingernails of those
who would hold me down
and trade me out -
I am no one's commodity.

So I wander down the road,
the sky my roof, the heart my home,
the clothing on my back
wearing thin

around the bend, just one more bend,
an encampment of laughter, bright eyes,
joyplay bubbling from a stream.

I'll drink from that.