Hermosa hobo

it's not his home
                    but it's his place
the blue sleeping bag
                under the warehouse threshold

the shopping cart
                      packed with blankets and plastic jugs
the long narrow skull-like head
                                  carrying a multitude of voices
some heard out there
                      some unheard beyond his broken self

 

the thinning oily blonde hair gathered in a ponytail

looks dyed a long time ago or darkened by the sun

that puts its finger on him as if The Almighty  

were just another homeowner who doesn't like him

nowhere around this kingdom of gated blessings

and he were a gluttonous fly or a monstrous ant

resting upon a granite countertop 

                                                        a marble tile

 

sometimes he scolds a team of lawyers

for losing his case against the world itself 

sometimes he is giving yoga classes

to a group too spiritual to be real

sometimes he yells at the breeze

because even she is more cold than cool

when she passes by the shadow where he dwells

 

he walks into public offices 

                     and unleashes 

a few of his loudest voices 

                                 among the office people

who listen his opinions on bus fares and routes 

       with trembling patience and imminent anger 

 

everyone at their desks cannot wait

for him to stop thanking whomever

talked to him for the longest five minutes

                        cannot wait 

for his fedora straw hat to be lost from sight 

                                                    cannot wait 

for its short brim to go back to cutting 

the ever-rambling wind in the streets 

 

when he is gone everybody is relieved
because he is no longer there to remind them
as he reminds me with his mere presence
when I see him lying under that threshold
that all of us are
                            just a few thoughts away
                                                from madness