The Hobo

The Hobo. I shelter from the rain and wind. In a cardboard box. Put out for the bin. I have a candle by me side. A luxury I abide. Soon the rain comes seeping in. Dripping down my chin.. I could go running up and down. The candle fizzils out Smoke whirls about. I find another that is dry. Settle down with a sigh. The do gooders do their best. Free soup and a night of rest. I can see in their eyes, That they despise. This Hobo, no surprise. No ordinary person would survive. In a cardboard box, alive. The warmth I seek, is from the heart. A Hobo with this has no part. Who would love a Hobo. I ask? No one takes on the part. Despise, loath and hate. Is what I must take. In the country. By the hedges go. In the towns, the doorways, shops I know. Bus stops best. Taken by the rest. No room is there. Anywhere. For a Hobo. .................................................