Mornin’, friends, enemies, and them what ain’t sure yet,
It’s Harry here, dust on my boots and starlight in my hair.
Today started the way all good quests do — with a whisper from the sacred cans. I was sittin’ cross-legged by my finest trash fire, the flames spittin’ out old secrets, when the Pisces can jittered sideways, all by its lonesome. I leaned in, squintin’ through the smoke, and there it was: a vision clear as a cracked church window. “Seek the Lost Hobo Treasure,” the can croaked, the fire hissin’ in agreement.
Now, every hobo worth his socks knows the legend — a treasure buried deep in the woods near the forgotten rail spur, a cache of wonders left behind by Old Switchblade Slim, the last King of the Cross-Ties. They say it’s got everything a drifter dreams of: silver harmonicas, ironclad boots, a hat that never sags, and a bottle of corn whiskey so pure it can talk back.
So I packed up my gear — a bindle stuffed with charms, crumbs, and the sacred cans — and I set off. The rails sang under my feet, and the crows hollered gossip from the telephone wires. Every mile, I stopped and rattled the Aries can, lettin’ it point my way like a rusty compass.
By high noon, I was knee-deep in briars, battlin’ vines like a knight errant. Trash fire meditation ain’t just for sittin’, friends — it’s for hard times too. I stoked a tiny blaze in an old hubcap and stared deep into the flames. They showed me an old oak, gnarled like a fist, with a knot shaped like a crescent moon.
Took me ‘til near sundown, but I found that tree. Dug with my bare hands, nails snappin’ like toothpicks, dirt cloggin’ my beard. And there it was — a rusted coffee can, heavier than sin. Inside? Not gold. Not whiskey. But a harmonica, a deck of dog-eared tarot cards, and a note.
The note said:
“The real treasure ain’t loot. It’s the findin’. Keep walkin’. – Slim.”
I laughed ‘til my ribs ached.
Played the harmonica under a blood-red sunset.
And you know what?
I felt richer than any king who ever sat a throne.
Tonight, I’ll bed down by the tracks, the cans lined up like old sentries, whisperin’ futures in their tinny voices. Tomorrow’s troubles can wait. For now, the stars are enough.
Yours on the wind,
Hobo Harry 🌙