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A Hobo's Dream

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It's dark and you're late,
Fright and disgust quicken your step,
Skillfully dodging me and the heap of filth,
That you find so hard to distinguish.

Not unlike you,
I was taught of four walls and a roof,
Never saw a home or humanity,
Something tells me you haven't too.

I see the brushes and pencils in your stares,
Do not exaggerate the shading, to show me in proper light
Because I will only see your sketched illustrations in shop windows,
My episodic suffering stands as a luminous spot on an obscure zebra crossing
Between your art and my reality.

Some scavenged bread to please the stomach,
How the fire hides my shivering breath
In the small can of water,
Reverberating my frozen smile between floating leaves.

Licking the cut in my thumb,
Awfully metallic it purrs,
I chuckle at his frizzy fur
He looks beyond my shaggy beard
And acknowledges an existence, not different from his own.

He points at the holes in my glove,
Is there room for another?
I wonder for an answer,
One from you.

Those drifting balloons carrying your messages,
I wouldn't understand if they land in my lap,
But I'll know of those lonely hours in empty spaces,
And cry with you.

In the corner of your window,
The lamp outlines your head,
I wish you wouldn't seek answers from falling meteors,
But from the craters below.

Your book is different than mine,
Yet our living is lost between glued pages,
Maybe the covers will lend us what we need
Towards this small hobo's dream.

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