You went about your something way.
You lit your fire like clockwork every night,
and scattered your spot with your litter,
As though it was your dirty washing, your cushions, your shoes.
You never glanced at passing cars.
You were busy with primary tasks.
Were you a recluse?
A poet? Thief? An immigrant?
Or were you merely temporarily unemployed?
Did you look long and deep into your fire’s flame?
Did you have enough to eat?
Did you ever speak?
And were you ever spoken to?
Did you have a mind
or was it destroyed by mankind or substance subservience?
Were you content?
Or miserable, cold and lonely?
Did you ever beg?
Who were you,
really?
And why are you no longer there?
(September 1998)
Diana van den Berg
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harbour-corner-hobo/
