You train-jumping vagabond tramp,
only home you know is a camp,
ashen-shoed as you move on through
sidestreets, foot trails, Route 62.
Roaming spirit, you’re a rumor,
haint with a whiskey-flask humor,
orphan from the carnival glow,
dressed for jazz, but a geek sideshow.
Sometimes you hum low to yourself,
or sing aloud like a drunk elf,
voice like a shovelful of slate,
heavy and coarse, yet free from weight.
Will you find what you’re looking for,
rambling state to state, door to floor?
Or is it the walk you’re after?
Hounding moonlight, girls, and laughter.
The horizon rolls to meet you
like a stray dog slow to greet you
and though you do not pet its brow
the world wags its tail—take a bow.