(20 minute poetry)

Write me in dialect
slang
as one would expect
a hobo to be.

I carry what to me is a maximum load, but to the road
I'm as light as the air.

And I'm going nowhere as the compass points out,
however nowhere is somewhere so it looks like I'm going there,
all things being equal
how odd.

Here I am
stood as a man should be
in the cold morning light that
as children, we longed for
but
not any more,
give me my pipe and
bring me my slippers
kippers for breakfast
and tripe for my tea
will do me.

The quickest way
is to jump
so I pump myself up
only
to let myself down
easily and
It scares me
that I contemplate
the greatness of being
when I
being
one
on the road.