He is a colorboy.
This poem is dedicated to the boys I met in the swamps.
I’ve got a beard that’s filled with mush.
And in my hair are bits of hay.
I sleep in dumpster and in bush,
and trashcan fires light my way.
I sit all day upon my rump.
I’ve got no bedding or regrets.
My hat is battered and torn up,
in the band there are some cigarettes.
I do not toil in farmer’s fields.
Nor greet a soul by ma’m or sir.
I steal from tourists all my meals
and shank the dirty taxpayer.
The shopping cart,she is my steed,
and mangy dog my only friend.
I get my heroin and weed
from soup kitchens that I attend.
Bar fights, glass shards,shivs and shanks,
I take what’s mine and other’s, too.
I utter not a “please” or “thanks”,
and collect in jars the morning dew.
So if you see me in the sun,
snuggled up in summer snooze,
filled with old stale hot dog buns,
and on my breath a reek of booze,
drop some coins into my cup
and give my head a gentle pat,
consider laying in my dump
The hobo life is where it’s at.