B r i a n   B e a t t y

The Hobo Alphabet

My hometown’s an archaeology
of hidden signs saying,
“Get out fast.”

But how’s this for ironic?
They’ve railroaded
every escape route.

No matter which street
a guy turns down
there he's forced to sit

stuck in a car behind all the others,
reminded this is what
I look like

with clouds of dust
coming up on me in a cracked
rearview mirror.

Boxes

Removed from their frames
doors aren’t exactly

invitations to sit
quietly saying nothing

about the light cast out
of victims’ homes

like unemployed drunks
to ruin an otherwise

neighborly night.
Nobody's asleep now.

Or polite, really.
It's three in the morning.

We're wandering from homes
we barely knew.

No matter what
we do or don't say

the light we leave behind
makes it impossible

to observe the unraveling
truth of stars

above our heads.