Like a pack of howling wolves in need of prey,
an out of pocket hobo strains his gnarled voice,
Motherless, fatherless, ice cold pavement waif,
Wee small hours plight

The rocks of his facade dispatched in ghost trains
for those ghoulish oil float gutters  to imbibe,
Back street burden stray, schooled in fringe art fables,
Phantom kite chaser

Eerie street lights peer into an aimless soul,
Clouds of pea soup fog engulf his raw foot slink,
Firefly knotted angst or bilious grumble,
Trash can tummy fare

But still he ambles on, inner plagues in charge
as loafers from the underworld gawk and gape,
Pithy, a phased out coin for snow cap straggler,
dead of night orphan