‘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