The Hobo

“Hobo , hobo ,” one cheeky boy points a finger
And the rest shout and snigger
At the slovenly figure.
With high decibel shouts they deride
The man whose thin arms dangle by his side.
They start pelting him with stones
” loony, loony,” they shout .
One tiny five year old wonders what this is all about.
And runs to hide
With fear, eyes wide.
In his haste
He stumbles and trips.
The boys watch passively, hands on hips.
Mouths stuffed with soft and fluffy buns
Crunch, crunch go these gluttons.
The hobo is in a shabby coat belted near the waist
His body a pathetic waste.
He hitches up his patched trousers
Which are branded
And to him were condescendingly handed
By a man in a chauffer driven car long back.

He hobbles towards the fallen boy
listless eyes in cavernous sockets.
And pulls out his hands from tattered pockets.
These two gnarled hands stretch towards the petrified boy.
He picks him up in his scarecrowish arms
And calms
Him with a lullaby.
The feisty clouds in the sky
Break into dance.
In his direction the sun casts an appreciative glance.

The five year old
Now feeling bold
Takes his grimy face in his chubby hands
And plants one kiss each on his sunken cheeks.

A tattooed boy, cheaply perfumed and expensively gelled , shrieks,
” He is a hobo, how he reeks ,”
Towards the man pointing an indignant finger.
The others shout and snigger.
But the five year old , in his mouth, a tiny finger
Adamantly by his side continues to linger.
And linger.

4 thoughts on “The Hobo

  1. lopu123

    As usual, a brilliant poem steeped in the philosophy of life’s unique treasures. Your writings fill our minds with richness galore, every time we read them.

    love,
    Lopa.

    Reply

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