Of all the things I wanted to be

when I was young boy,

the jobs I imagined being able to do  with a

certain degree of satisfaction,

never mind at all

the wage

in which was not even a secondary factor

in my overwhelmed mind

as I never thought I would be married

and father children

of my own in which to foul up their lives,

the most appealing was the life of a Hobo,

or the tramp

when spoke in English tongue.

 

The Tramp though wasn’t for me,

it didn’t seem to have the right

path of innocent wonder  attached to it as I stared at my bedroom wall,

past the wallpaper full of drawn

footballing images and later posters of

the greats like Bobby Moore and Johan Cruyff or much later still

Linda Lusardi in playful pink and a mass of hair. The Hobo

though, the word evoked adventure,

the unlimitness of Time

being at my command

and staying in one place for just a day or two,

a beer being handed to me as if in thanks or in repayment

of a tall tale with a touch of truth

of what was happening in another far of land.

 

I let my mind wander and in class, as I do now, doodle small islands,

the coves, inlets and bays mine to walk along as I imagine where the

best place to run a rail track through would be

and I imagined no one to answer

to except my own mind and the call of a distant drum

in which I could accompany with my own battered violin.

I could fall in love every so often and make a great play of staying put

in a small hamlet near a welcoming wood,

a village green and a cricket team to watch,

and perhaps change the life

of someone, for the better, for them I could be good and be a part

of something bigger but then

feet would start walking ahead of me and I would need to run

to catch up and not breathe heavily in anguish at the future loss.

 

The Hobo never knew where he wanted to be, all roads

lead to the next home but would be forever asking politely

what is over the next hill which blossoms at dawn

and  growls hungrily at night?

I still believe there is a Hobo still inside

and I let him wander around, let his eyes see what I cannot

but I find myself catching myself knowing that my feet can

no longer catch up and each day I am just another few

yards behind him, the sun at his back,

the wind and snow forcing him

to find shelter, the odd apple pinched, the thanks

for the warm winter coat escaping my grateful lips

and the tune of a long forgotten song

haunting my existence.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014