A Hobo's Christmas Poem by Lillian Susan Thomas

Hobos in holey coats
Would stand around the oil drums fires
At Santaland that could be enjoyed
From Thanksgiving to Epiphany.
They sometimes shared a thermos
Of Christmas cheer and off-key caroling
Of "Joy to the World"
After all the children had gone home,
Leaving their pronged sticks
Gooey with half-burnt marshmallows
Or greasy half-eaten franks.
One of the late visitors might be seen
Chewing on one of those forked stalks.
This wasn't some form of pica;
Nor was he becoming a ruminant:
Just making a snack of the leftovers.

Thenl the city put up a high fence
Around the seasonal attraction,
Where a tollbooth with a charge
Enjoys very few visitors.
But no hobos bother those deserted fires.

Now the homeless descend
On parking lots downtown,
Hugging the hoods of parked cars,
Spreading arms over the still-warm engines
As an angel would extend
Her wings before ascending
Into the clear, holy night.