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Hobo

11 Feb

*

He came into my life
with his fuzzy mustache clown smile,
sorry and happy at once.
He was running, just running
down that road by himself,
singular –he seemed
bent on self-destruction

then he flashed his look at me,
as I was driving home in my new car
at first, I didn’t know what he was
it was raining, mucky, with poor visibility
he was matted thick with mud
But I saw those eyes,
and I knew,
Yes, I just knew,
I had to see.

I stopped and called him.
He came right up to me, smiling
languid dark eyes with tear boogers,
the gray old vagabond
had me with one look.
I cringed. I knew my partner
wouldn’t be happy. I said to myself
“What the flip.
He’s coming home.”
oh well, for the new car upholstery

Shaking all over,
eyes smiling to appreciate mine,
I examined him closely;
wanted to laugh out loud
and cry all at once;
He was so utterly forlorn,
he was an honest grifter,
deep, intelligent eyes
made me a sucker for
the drama they held.

I invited him to come to my place.
Gladly he accepted, for he wasn’t shy
He reeked of garbage cans
and poor toilet habits
I got the
“Oh my god, what’ve you done?”
but worth it
I knew that was coming

In my living-room light,
I could see the wounds
deep gashes split one leg
the poor old boy was covered
with stinking sores.

charcoal-gray, long-limbed,
with matted filthy whiskers,
I decided to shower him,
(with squawking background yada-yada)
he complied willingly
–took three days
to get the stains out of the tub.
(yep, lots more blah-blah-blah)
–worth it

But after his bath,
I cleaned his wounds
named him just what he was: Hobo
the old dog and I danced together
many-a-day for he could stand, dance,
and smile like no dog
I ever met, or ever would–
with his laughing wide grins.

*

 
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Posted by on February 11, 2021 in Poetry, Short Story

 

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