on the sidewalk
and a ditsy blond
with a microphone
tell me it is
a hot as hell
kind of day
and the cool air
of the library
makes me
want to nod.
My belly
wants beans,
my heart
set on booze.
My imagination
craving anything,
nothing
much to do.
Buckshot Bill and
Long-haired Tom
come back
and Tramp
not far behind.
The air thick
as a shot of
Jagermeister,
heavy
as a dog-eared copy
of The Bell Jar,
margins full
of notes.
Laying aside
paper and pen
emptying my pockets
of change and
a couple of
tattered ones onto
a torn and faded
kerchief crusted
with sweaty salt.
Tramp smiles
nods at Bill.
After the chip-in
we come up with
just over ten
bucks. Tommy
has pitched
about a nickel
of weed and
thirty seven cents
in copper
into the pot
we smile,
a hobo holiday.
We smoke
heading to the river
to swim
then over the bridge.
Quarts of five nine beer
all around.
Then another.
After the fifth inning
minor league ball
no tickets needed.
A hobo holiday.
