The Hobo

Written by: Norman Purvis

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.

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