a moment in time at viento y agua, making my peace with the city
The Noble Hobo
Let his beard grow
So the birds could nest
The dirt caked on his heels
Collected the city's memories
To clean them would be to do Her a disservice.

These streets are his
But this he would never claim
Yet it is known
That to cross this intersection
Is to enter his domain
And rules that are broken
Call out to him in defense
Of their validity
He responds in kind
Polite but authoritative

He stared into my eyes
And a part of me died
His cardboard sign
Reminded me
That any second
Any thing
Can disappear

Each grain of dust and grime
Contained within a forgotten time
His soles were histories
And all the miseries
Made him smile, lopsided

The straight lines in the pavement are illusory
The cracks are the truth

His palms are creviced
Like the streets
Dry and cracked and white
Calling out for road work
And orange signs
And detours
And inconvenience
But he calms them
With the thought that they
Need no rehabilitation
Within the expanse of their
Deserted desert gaps
The wind howls,
Drowning out the bustle of the traffic that diverts its eyes
To avoid meeting his

But he is noble
And their aversion is commonplace
In a world where pockets constantly empty,
Pouring their contents into a bottomless cauldron
Stirred by marionettes who in turn are pulled to and fro
By marionettes
This chain continues
Beyond the length of
A trained sniper's sight
The strings are made of fishing line, invisible
In the darkness no matter the angle

This man knows they are there
And knows not to rely on his sight
Eyes closed, he imagines a field of grass blades
Flicking like anxious tongues
At the sky
Just the right hue of green,
Dark enough
To be confused with their shadows