A few appeared when I was young,
My mother sent them there, away from the house.
I wandered down with my dog to see them,
They walked out of the back roads and fields
When I bought my first house with my bride,
I dreamed a homeless man slept in the yard.
I tried to make him leave.
But he knew he belonged, unwelcome,
These city bums, they don’t seem the same.
I did not pity the hobos of my youth,
They came, hat in hands, ashamed,
They knew life owed them nothing,
--Poetry East, Spring 2007