Valerie Bellefleur Poet Narrative

The Hobo

He sits in Claremore's railroad station
Slapping mosquitoes as big as air craft carriers
Blood runs down a neck parched as leather
Mixes with sweat of that elusive honest day's work
Hear those incessant  crickets in dry prairie grass
Noon sun, so unrelenting
Winds rush by mocking a thirsty tongue
Darn that black Ford that sends
Burning dust down a poor man's throat
Hey, kid get off those tracks
Your mamma is calling you
Let me put my tired ear to that
Steel and listen
For my train taking me to nowhere town...

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Vince Suzadail Jr. August 8, 2008 at 12:03 PM Sad. I talked to an old man once who said it was what he chose. Apparently it was worse for him at home. You write well of those less fortunate. God Bless. Vince

James Foulk August 8, 2008 at 11:54 AM this was poem to be read, a poem to be born, and you gave it birth. really enjoyed this. i could see that hobo, and the railroad station. some of my happy days as a youth were spent in a train station waiting for a train. so I could relate to this poem in many ways. walking the rails along the tracks. yes loved this poem. thank you for reading my frog kissing booth and for your comment