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Hobo Constellation

J. Dean Randall

There's no skyward glimpse for 'bos riding the rods,

skimming sweet rails with no bills, names in lights,

the streetlights out, and your hand waving me onward.

The moon I throw aboard, crossways down the track

from the cleaver's maw. Now my life's a shanty,

my words bricked so loose the boys all smoke inside.

Middle paths finish my merry whistle, tuned to

the day's shine, play mute in other bay windows—

sigh—with a yes for vags, their campfire thoughts,

old promises trudged beneath the mush, our feet

a stain on mother's counter. These inflated nickels

strike a good word, but bruises take alabaster

even when fingers… when babies cry papa…

a hair falls from the chest of all grown men.