Another old man with a suitcase
stands at the interstate ramp
his grin has a glow in the twilight
his cap and cigar in his hand
and he wears a mystique of adventure
as if having nowhere to go
is only a door that is open
instead of a door that is closed.
In winter he wanders the city
he holds in his bare weathered hands
a map to a meal and a shelter
a night in the nobody land
where nobody lies in the silence
of curses that nobody hears.
The echo on asphalt is kinder
the street is no stranger to tears