The Hobo

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He sat in the corner, freezing

Chilled to the bone, shaking

Reliving those fateful moments, remembering

Listening to the chatter of the steel wheels

Time racing down the tracks


They had traveled the southeast together, partners

Joined by fate and disillusionment, desperate

Lost to the world at large, forgotten

Living to the rhythmic sound of the wheels

Life racing down the tracks


A frantic rush to the tracks, running

Snatched up as he gripped the ladder, climbing

Looking back to see his companion, reaching

A soul ripped free beneath the crushing wheels

Death Angel flying down the tracks


He dropped the severed arm, twitching

Sick to the core of his being, retching

His mind a fractured shell, screaming

Unending echoes of the crushing wheels

Sanity fleeing down the tracks


He sat in the boxcar corner, freezing

A young man, chilled to the bone, shaking

Remembering the feel of his hand, denying

Listening to the lonesome chatter of the wheels

Innocence left behind on the tracks

copyright 1999, M. W. Anderson