Hobo

My overcoat is my mansion and my bed. Its pockets are torn, but they still warm my hands. A man needs nothing more than this to dream, and to spend his dreams with everyone he loves. My pants have holes that show my knees like the sky at night that shows the moon. Each hole is like a star; it has its own legend. Each tear is a verse in my epic. Under the cloudy sky at night, sitting at the intersection of all the places where I could be, I read my fortune in raindrops that fall on my sorry face.