The Hobo

I will long remember when the hoboes came around.
They walked along the railroad tracks and slept upon the ground.
They'd stop at certain houses, 'tis said they marked the gate,
to beg a bite.  If you were lucky, they would work for what they ate.

If Dad was home, they'd sit awhile.  Now, many  tales I've heard
about their many journeys, believing every word.
'Twas usually a tale of woe; no family to care
if they wore ragged clothing and never cut their hair.

Yes, they had many stories why they'd taken to the trail.
But, they kept a watch for lawmen, for vagrants got thrown in jail.
Altho' they lived along the road, they didn't look too unclean.
(Tho I recall once Mom shampooed us kids with kerosene.)

There was one drifter who'd stop by our gate, year after year.
We couldn't help but wonder 'bout him, when one Fall he didn't appear.
It's been a long time since a hobo wandered down our lane.
But he's back there in my mem'ry near the whistle of the train.

- Lillian Arnold Lopez "Pineylore"

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