the words Rives spoke"Hobo" (click for more)I I'm a hoboin a comic strip,dozing on a hillunderneath a tree--I've got the solesof my worn-out bootsflapping in the breezeso my toes poke through.I've got a long string of Z'sgrowing from my lips like this:Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Zand then one of these:(wh-wh-wh-wh-w h i s t l e).I've got a five o'clock shadow.Got my stuff in a bundle.Laid out below meis a town called Next--I've got a noggin full of songs,got a story on my tongue,but I've got absolutely no other prospects. II I'm a hoboin a comic strip,strolling through town--I keep my hobo nose upand my pointy elbows pointed down. "Good day, Sir! Ma'am!Lovely baby in the pram!" See--I've got pride enough to last me past tomorrow,cuz I never borrow,never steal,never beg--not even when my thought bubble goes:Chicken Leg. But...what is that smell?Over past the planterwith its tidy row of daffodils?What is that cooling on the window sill? My oh my--it's an apple pie.With a crisscross crust.And you know what else it's got?Those three squiggly linesrising from the top.Yep--the apple pie is piping hot. Mmmmmmnn Mmnn! Hmmmmmmnn. Better think for a minute.Turn my lucky pocket inside-out,see if happenstance maybe put a penny in it. Unhh-unhh... Better think.Think.Think of thingsonly a hobo knows: Like how a hedgehog'll runthe way his hedgerow goes.How the cold sleet'll eat youwhen the North wind blows.How the crickets chirp quickerwhere the green corn grows.How to tramp through manure,come out smelling like a rose... oooooop. I get my lightbulb pose. III I'm a hoboin a comic strip,with a homemade bouquet--I spent a good quarter hourplucking just the perfect flowers.So I take off my hatwhen I step up on that stoop,and I'm hoping this heat doesn't wilt these posiesso they drooptowards the Welcome maton the front porch floor. When Va-va-va-voom comes to the door. And she is so well-drawn,so proportioned and pretty--I figure: Maybe she moved herefrom Comic Strip City--she's got those long eyelashesand an apron on. And this is how the hoboand the homemaker meet:Her with a speech balloonlooming overhead like a typographic moongoing: "Flowers? For me? How sweet!!" And then awww how she blusheswhen she gets a glimpse of mine,going:"Asterisk!Exclamation point!Ampersand!'At' symbol!Dollar sign, dollar sign...You're fine!" (That next-to-last panelis so much my favorite,I should clip it out and stick itto an icebox and save it--cuz right there, right thenI'd see my heart, my hobo heart,jump from my chestand thump back again.) IV I'm a hoboin a comic strip,side by sideon a porch swing singingwith my comic strip bride. We like to watch the fireflieslight up the dusk. And I painted two picketson her white fence rust.Reminds me of railroad tracks.They say: "Hey, mister, listen--ain't ya ever come back?To whistling in the moonlight,and pissing in the dust?" And oh boy I just might.And I might just not.And I might let the notiongo done get forgot.I mean, my oh my-- I get daily apple pie. I'm a hoboin a comic strip,and every so oftenI'll tell folks storieswhen I don't really mean 'em. But oh don't the twilight stars twinkle.Don't the honeysuckle blossom.Don't two lovebirds descendwith a banner between 'em. That's right, friend: The End.

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