I found you in parks,
camped out in libraries
bus depots

we shared road stories,
****, food, and whatever we had
stuffed in our pants, forbidden
by the man

you came from everywhere
and were going nowhere--except
California

a million dreams after
Steinbeck's hordes plodded west,
desperate to find the fruit

but you were in search
of grapes without the wrath:
there weren't any

you came and went  
some succumbing to the needle
others to the bottle, and more to the winds
which whisked you to another park bench,
another all night diner, in another
dead, gray city

I stuck around,
earned, or stole, greenback dollars
built red brick houses, had children and wives  
and almost forgot your scent

now, mostly when the lights are out,
I add the years of your evaporating biographies
and realize so few of you remain,
to walk our flat earth