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HOBO JUSTICE Another time hardened men would beg for dinner, trading hours and maybe a chore or two. Then down the road with a little luck a bottle; I wonder what those bums and hoboes knew. They followed dreams or ran away from nightmares, braving storms and brutal rail yard guards. To work for food and sleep in some cold boxcar, this laborious life of rambling made the hobo hard. I watched them camp between the two great rivers, shaggy men eating out of a small tin can. Just where they went no one has ever told me, it’s hard to get to know that type of man. Say can you see the hobo ghosts come dancing, with the wind waltzing down life’s railroad track. Women or men have never slowed the hobo but old man time just broke the hobo’s back. Let’s watch them dance then dream ourselves a freight train and not one sadist bull for a hundred happy miles, just empty cars with every door wide open and one-hundred-thousand ghostly hobo smiles. Memories and ghosts are all that’s left of the handsome hobo, all are gone and never coming back, let the lazy wind blow and waltz them on forever, they paid their dues on that lonely railroad track. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Brandon Gene Petit On Date: 2003-09-04 13:38:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.37838
A unique and rather moving poem ..... a sad story of the bleak reality of homeless
people, told with elegance and subtle sadness rather than harsh and brutal cynicism.
The reference to the hobos' ghosts is an interesting touch, honoring the loss of
nameless men to an inimicable industrial world. Insightful with honest sentiment.
- Brandon