You went about your something way. <br />You lit your fire like clockwork every night, <br />and scattered your spot with your litter, <br />As though it was your dirty washing, your cushions, your shoes. <br />You never glanced at passing cars. <br />You were busy with primary tasks. <br /> <br />Were you a recluse? <br />A poet? Thief? An immigrant? <br />Or were you merely temporarily unemployed? <br /> <br />Did you look long and deep into your fire’s flame? <br />Did you have enough to eat? <br />Did you ever speak? <br />And were you ever spoken to? <br />Did you have a mind <br />or was it destroyed by mankind or substance subservience? <br />Were you content? <br />Or miserable, cold and lonely? <br />Did you ever beg? <br /> <br />Who were you, <br />really? <br /> <br />And why are you no longer there? <br /> <br />(September 1998)<br /><br />Diana van den Berg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harbour-corner-hobo/
