there’s a ruckus in the alley and the sun will be here soon

September 24, 2006 | Filed Under ordinary 

this morning i drank the first pot of mediocre coffee while staring out the window at the rain on the grass, the little tent blown over in the breeze, the soccer ball, the table. jude opened the door and splashed in a little puddle, sogging up the pants of his pajamas, laughing, refusing breakfast. the house was quiet, the cousins still sleeping with their parents, the whip of the ceiling fan propelling against the stale air.

“look henry, a hobo,” i direct his eyes out of the drizzle of car window. two people, a man, a woman(?) trudge down the highway with their belongings strapped to their backs, carried in bags in their tanned arms. “what’s a hobo?” he asks. “people without a home, who travel from place to place in search of somewhere to sleep, something to eat. carl sandburg was a hobo for awhile,” i say, blurring together my thoughts in the way only my mother, my husband, noel, melanie can follow. “we need to buy the american songbag.”

we are people without a home, though all of our belongings are stacked in my brother’s garage, though we travel from sleeping places and eating places in a volkswagon called pearl, though our arms are sheepishly pink, decidely untanned.

i miss my stuff, my french press, my velvet jacket(s), kneesocks, the clink of familiar dishes, the comfort of a desk mess to call my own, to leave for days undisturbed, to complain about. i miss the world wide web sitting and spitting out a blue light in my direction, clicking my way through information and image whenever i feel like doing so. although the coffee is better, vagabond, coffee-shop internet usage is hard to do.

we are filled with the sog of the ground, the inconstant swish of the trees, the cold moonlighting its way through the screens in the early hours of the morning, the long stretch of road curving secretly in front of us, the soar and slope of our spirits, unpredictable, faithless.

thunder on the mountain, rolling like a drum; gonna sleep over there, that’s where the music coming from. . .

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