Mobile Man


He comes to this motel every Thursday, Friday, or Monday.
It’s not too bad of a locale, for the most part it stays pretty mundane.
I watch him though. He’s got long hair, and the same clothes on every time.
There’s plastic bags in stow, and a back pack that dangles behind.
He often flies up into the room, very rarely does he come out.
He must live a life full of gloom, all his joy, perhaps, fell victim to rout.
No one ever arrives to make his acquaintence, at least none that I have witnessed.
201, that’s the number he inhabits week to week, finding shelter from an unknown distance.
I wonder where he goes from here, his tags presume a close estate.
His clothes are indeed quite austere, suggesting business is not the date.
This mystery of a man has left me puzzled; arriving here from year to year.
I ponder if he has a clan and someone elsewhere to hold him near.
I can imagine this hooded lynx to be the whatever my inner mind sees.
But, what I think is irrelevant, to what may actually be his hopes and dreams.

By: Charles Poore

Published by

The White Raven

Writer, author, philosopher, philanthropist, poet, imbecile, denizen gypsy. A rare bird of sorts is what you'll come to think of me. I love to write, play, and work diligently to prove one day fiction will become a reality. I'm very simple when it comes to my views on life, a backpack is ideally my best friend and I found my mistress with paper and pen.

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