Of Wayward Men

You can fill out into the dreams the
Laymen sing,
And they will give you a chariot you can color in
As it proceeds you to work
Over the jigging heads of hobos and their hobo queens:
They sleep underneath the ribbons of necessity’s
They pitch the raggedy tents in the windswept bungalows
Of the east,
And they sing as the waves come in and then retreat:
And they whisper against the rush of traffic under the craning
Necks of the dun work buildings
While they juggle hoping bottles and rustle whishing bones like dirty feathers;
And they count the tombs the dead go traveling in,
While the weather flutes through them, rippling these stuporous flags
Of wayward men.

by Robert Rorabeck

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