I saw a hobo on a bench,

Leaning over to read a placard 

Beside a statue of a famous man.

His mouth was open while he read

And it droops down a little and to the left,

Like his hat and his heart.

He looked to me like a stalky,

Long-stemmed flower

That needed to be watered.

Sometimes it’s too late to give water to a plant.

The roots are dead, and you watering it

Only makes its spirit mad,

And it will haunt you,

And give you sad dreams.

I hope this man is not dead already,

But just in case he is,

I don’t think I’ll try to water him.

I’m no expert on such things.

But as I pass by in my car,

I notice the mouth

On the statue of the famous guy

Droops a little down and to the left, too.

-jenn