‘Hobo Rhapsody’
Let your troubles roll by,
like broken axles
on Tonka trucks,
treaded plastic,
rolling doughnuts.
Grandpa’s toothpicks
weren’t tough enough
for a hard day’s work,
dropping dirt
from the back fence
to the patio,
where his son stood.
Farther away
than interest could,
wrapped in a dense
cloud of cigar smoke,
rocking on the deck wood,
heel to toe, and the embers glowed
and burnt lungs as hope—
faded.
Let your troubles roll by
with rolling papers,
a pinch of tobacco,
chasing highs,
dodging lows.
Only after cramming numbers,
like gunpowder chambered,
and the dealer showed
a blackjack smoking
over a hidden heart—
ace card.
I flipped past a suicide king,
tarnished by a four,
outs diminishing,
then a two,
poor house blues,
hitting on sixteen,
picking metal strings.
I was destined to slap rhythm
on a pick guard,
or lose chips to this dealer,
turning up homeless
and dreaming of bright lights
or a backyard.
If only I knew
what it was like to win
with pockets of gold,
or even nickels—
but the slots took those too.
Under a bridge, shivering,
a starry blanket glistening,
knotted back, writhing,
the thanks I get for gambling.
Let your troubles roll by.
A vagabond,
hopping railroad ties,
nipping scotch
in town after town,
dusty tumbleweed,
no trust left for God or me.
I fight rolling mountainsides—
peaks cresting then crashing
to wheat plains,
incessant clacking,
a watch keeping time
waiting for the coda
or a final line.
-N&A
