As miserable as life may seem,

There are certainties in routines.

Water specifically,

Flow of water:

Stream, pond, reservoir, fountain, well or not… 

Flow of water,

As hobo as life may seem.

 

A traveller caught bare-feet,

On a fig tree

In a neighbourhood park.

Neighbours from neighbouring continents,

Counting colours is Hobbism.

Schism, if you must ask!

Daytime, a suspicious tourist

Night time, a fugitive

Some kind of dark related Fearism.

There are certainties in routines,

Thus dark begets darker.

 

Sun bids well,

Parks are off-limits now.

Socialism has faded,

Tourists are off.

Accumulated sweat of the day

Is lurking through warm night breeze.

Traveller is hunting for a bare-minimum sized bench.

​

Most benches around Madrid

Are like a flamenco beat:

Step – step / clap.

Seat – seat / armrest.

A bare-minimum horizontal body can rest / NOT.

Confined comfort of this Capital Municipality

-flocking with refugees-

Has to obtain a certain routine of pristine visage,

Hence the cramped public benches.

 

Yet any wonderer in a new city

Falls for this Grandiose Ordinary.

Traveller settles for a double-lane street

, one of the main contributors for the central district,

Bedazzled by the road verge faunas and side-walk landscapes,

Barren stretches of road, distant to a commune area for anyone to wonder at night.

He’s sure of this choice, tucks his bag under legs… 

 

! Amateurs Beware !

Hobo’s Nurturing Facsimile, Section three reads by;

Recreational parks and main cityscape ornaments require a routine watering maintenance.

Usually applied by sprinklers, otherwise hidden from sight when off-use.

 

​

Every now-and-then, each time hoping it’s going to be last,

Traveller gets a two-minute sprinkle showers.

In his defence;

Bare-minimum for an unexpected coordinated rain,

Is way over two minutes.

 

Spit washing hands

-sometimes eyes even-

On a quest for tonight’s bed.

His lips are wine-cracked as usual,

Hygiene depended on saliva,

Hope already exhausted,

A standard two-seater in a quite suburb is settled.

​

Doooosing offfff…

This is all those wine were for;

To be able to crash mindless,

Regardless the shit-scented street.

A desire worthy for a queen-sized bed indeed!

 

At a most unfavourable hour of the night

wine wears off.

That’s when the agony of thirst awakes a hobo.

Cranky as hell, without a drop of water,

Engulfed in a foul stench…

There’s no recovery from this.

 

Yet, there are certainties in routines,

Like the dawn prayer for a believer.

Dark skinned men with an African-tribal dress-code,

On their way back from the mosque, lean over:

​

“you thirsty?” holding a smile.

​

Recovering traveller agrees.

Gentlemen retreat home,

Shouting from above minutes later:

​

“frozen water, will last many hours” dropping the bottle.

​

Traveller cuddles the ice, doses off…

 

What day takes, night gives…

Like that one peculiar night,

When cultural taps and strings

were flowing from an auditorium in a park.

Bars left open,

Most generous benches (without armrests) stretching all around

Traveller sweeping in, lies onto one.

Knees not cracked, toes stretched out

Spit-full palms thanking gods.

Cosy warm flamenco carries him right into floating dreams.

 

There are certainties in routines,

Wishful night’s sleep for our traveller, is NOT one of them…

Waterfalling high-heels into his sombre sleep,

On this marvellous wooden bench of four seats.

Approaching lady, in a fine dress-code, leans over:

​

“para ti” holding a money-bill.

​

Awoken traveller, agitated:

​

“My lady, don’t you know, not to disturb a hobo’s sleep?”

​

Shaken lady, withdraws…

Ahh, what a glorious night.

 

By now;

A week of lousy nights’ sleep

Digesting solely on lentejas and wine

Has turned social injustice into confrontation blossoms

For our hobo traveller.

​

“Covenants, without a bed, are but words and of no strength to secure a man at all.”

 

Flamenco has ended,

Auditorium dispatched,

People satisfied, scattered to their homes.

Park is off-limits,

Traveller drifts on…

 

So, my dear Mr. Hobbes, you see;

Every night searching for a bed,

Is nothing but

A great leap in the dark.