"The Hobo"

Short poem about a hobo...

"The Hobo"

Yesterday, I watched the hobo.
Not the old hobo, but the new one;
the one with a dirty face and
a long beard, the one with an
expression as worn as the clothes he wore.

The hobo stood outside a store window,
staring in with an gnarled glare.
He watched with such a purpose, fixated
as if expecting the building to uproot
itself and walk across the street.

The hobo couldn't go inside. Through
his hardened features, there was a
pain--a fear. I watched the hobo walk
to the end of the street. He stood at
the bus stop as if he could afford the fare.

The hobo returned to building, and
the window. I saw him glance over his
shoulders. He checked his pockets and
walked inside. I saw a bumper sticker
that said "maybe tomorrow". The hobo
walked down the street with an unopened
bottle.