The difference, sixty years ago anyway, between a hobo and a bum was that a hobo wanted to work. I still have the picture.


Hobos

During the hard years right after The War,
Hobos came often to our open back door,
Asking to work for a meal or spare change.
Each left a mark, scratched on our sidewalk;
Hobo sign-language to all those who needed
The compassion of the lady who lived within.
They came to rely on the kindness of strangers
And my mother could never turn anyone away.

But one day came hobos of a different sort:
A man leading an old, brown swayback pony,
So skinny I stared and could count its ribs.
I sat on its shaggy back, and I still remember
The man looking away as he took my picture;
The pony's tired eyes breaking both our hearts.




Poetry by countryfog
Read 463 times
Written on 2011-04-23 at 16:02

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Very nice, Fog.
2011-04-24



Enlightened and laid back... and the nuance is made clear poetically.
2011-04-24



I like the easy language with which you write this. It is the kind of memory that lends itself to simple, declarative sentences. The emotion comes from your ability to translate your memory into words.

My mother used the threat of hobos to keep us away from the railroad right of ways where we used to catch grasshoppers. It never deterred us, but it did add an element of danger.

The end of the poem is poignant, and it seems to be a good summary of a sad era, for those who struggled.
2011-04-23


NicholasG
I was not witness to this era although there were still hobos and bums in the 70s. My take was that Hobos sometimes play guitars. Bums steal them. ;-)
I did some research into the symbols of Hobos. The friendly old lady got a simple drawing of a smiling cat.
Thanks for this and the window onto this era.
Nick
2011-04-23