Hobo. (Free verse) by SupremeDreamer
Withered grass weeds bend
with the wind and I sit there,
absorbed by the soft roar of traffic,
on my oversized hiking-pack just
off on the side, under an overpass;
my soil thumbed cardboard sign out
and waiting for the next kickdown
or the arrival of oblivion.
My beard has reached the Moses state
and the stillness which possesses me,
while I idle amidst the pulse of traffic,
is what the ascetics must have felt,
begging with wooden rice bowls
in the Buddha palm fields of India.
This is what the fates have reduced me to,
but this verrucose path that I've traveled
has taught me to fucking endure the elements
patiently waiting for my needs to come to me.
What makes my day, really?
It's seeing the face of a yuppie
agape at the sight of me with
a seven hundred dollar laptop
bought with his highway donations.
I smile as their face contorts further
as they realize that I'm drinking
the same overpriced mocha-latte
that they do.
Fuck this land, Indian graveyards,
and the skeletal scavenging of capitalism.
Fuck you who looks down on me--
when Rome falls, you'll be fucked
while I'll finally be set free.
Back to poem details