Cruising down Highway 9 again.

It’s a brisk, beautiful New England morning.

I pass two hobos on my left and right.

One guy is taking a break; sitting on the guard rail.

The other guy is pushing a shopping cart on the shoulder toward me

His eyes are wide open with the wind at his back.

The girls tell me that the hobos are either drifting into a yesterday that never was.

Or about to sail away to the stars.

I feel like I’ve been down that road too.

These empty depots are sacred ground.

Not too many would even bother to contemplate that.

The footsteps are everywhere.

The spirits remain.

The newlyweds on the way to their honeymoon.

To have the children of the children that we are.

So that we can do the same; more or less.

The brave men who went to war.

Some came home.

Others sailed away to the stars.

Next stop is the fake diner.

I slide over the stool.

The hobos sit to my left and right.

We order the usual.

“Well fellas, next stop, the stars.”