Nomad-drigal.
Updated on January 21, 2012
Nomad-Drigal.
©-MFB III
The old hobo
rolled in a fox trot
out of the boxcar,
whose letters were
sun faded even
in the moonlight.
He was always cautious
after any ride
over steel tracks.
He remembered
rail yard bulls
billy clubs
broken hard
across his shoulders.
But he’d heard
church bells ring
that Christmas eve.
They played songs
his precious mother
had sung to him
forever ago.
He finger combed hay
from his hair
and snuck in
the open church,
with the wisdom of thieves.
He knelt to pray
as the glitter of teardrops
cleaned crosses
on his creased
coal stained face.