They don't live in houses,
they sleep across the tracks
under the elms behind the cannery
where Mommy works nights.
One guy sits on a lumpy
rawhide suitcase strapped shut
with men's belts and clothes line.
His pal is grilling pork chops
skewered on coat hangers
over a fire of busted crates.
Mommy says they're hobos,
in the morning they'll be gone,
now that the tomato harvest is done.
Says maybe they'll go down
to Porterville or Exeter.
The oranges should be
about ready to pick.
I see them the next morning
standing in the door of the boxcars
as train begins to roll.
I wave.
and the guy with the old suitcase
touches the brim of his fedora
and waves back.
I want to be a hobo
when I grow up, mommy.
do you, honey? why?
I want to ride in boxcars
so I can look at everything
and I want to eat oranges.
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