Hail the hobo King sitting on his throne of
A stripped ford, engine no longer their
Dismantled of all that was worth a dime.
His subjects bring offerings of dinner trash
Food, fresh from the dumpster. Given to
Those of ill health and malnourished need.
He sits in clothes matted with his trails of
The moments his feet have hit the pavement.
Of life not as others had the chance to live.
He wandered the land every concrete jungle
Knew him as the hobo King, no crown gestured
His head, only the word, the word of mouth.
Settling disputes of those in homes of cardboard
Of wood and used plastic sheeting sheltering from
Those who would do harm and the relentless cold.
He wonders the streets, knows the secrets of each
City of the unseen spaces where those whom roam
Now lay. The vulnerable have a guardian a keeper.
Ignorance of those who do not see that which in
Doorways sleep, of huddled masses under bridges
Buildings to keep dry and an uneasy sleep.
He is the hobo king a crown of matted hair he
Wears, always does he have time for those
Less fortunate because he is one with the street.
