Hobo

 

An orphan from an early age,

He struck out on his own…

The highway and the railroad track,

Soon came to be his home.

 

His only wealth was in stories,

That he once liked to tell,

He pulled them up, one by one,

Like water from a well.

 

His thumb became his ticket,

And his grit his only claim,

Sometimes the railroad was his choice,

And he would hop a train.

 

Back and forth, for years and years,

He traveled coast to coast,

For freedom and the great outdoors,

Were what he loved the most.

 

The stars were his companions,

But on a cold crisp night,

He finally crept to share the warmth,

Of campfire’s friendly light.

 

And if they ask, ‘What is YOUR name?’

His answer would come slow,

“I reckon you can just call me,

By what I am, ‘ Hobo’.

 

Gray and grizzled, gaunt and lean,

And hardened by tough years,

When he was found dead by the road,

No one shed any tears.

 

©  2004  Loree (Mason) O’Neil

 

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