He said to me he had a wife and child
and one day he just grew tired,
left them he did, but couldn't say why.
On the road he met others like me and
around campfires we looked at the stars
and laughed at the towns we had seen.
And you know we always knew our freedom would end:
age would catch us, animals eat us, the cold ****** us.
George, that was his name, said he had a plan for it
but of course it wasn't sane, though we listened to it good.
Then one day on a high bridge I saw him go,
arms and legs spread wide as if in flight,
the splash so small I thought him right,
he had suffered enough to get the end right.
© 2016
The hobo (*****) still exists in American society, though we hear very little of them.
