By Hobo Harry, Keeper of the Tin Can Zodiac
Mornin’ wanderers and wishmakers,
It was just past dawn when I stirred the trash fire with my sacred stick (a broken chair leg, still slightly haunted), and sat down cross-legged in the ash ring, breathin’ in the smokey wisdom of yesterday’s expired coupons and fast food wrappers. The cans—twelve of ‘em, one for each sign and seasoned with years of whispers—were already hummin’. Felt like a potent day was brewin’.
But before I could peer into the Can of Aries (currently smellin’ like singed chili), I saw it. Glintin’ in the mud by the train tracks, half-buried like a secret waitin’ to be told. A coin.
Now, I ain’t the greedy sort, but a shiny thing’s a shiny thing, and this one gleamed like destiny herself winkin’ at me. I plucked it out the muck, wiped it on my coat (which, in fairness, may have added more mud than removed), and saw the words: “Lucky” stamped on one side, and on the other: “One Free Wish.”
Now, I’ve seen omens, portents, and raccoons dancin’ in the moonlight ‘round a hot dog bun, but this—this was rare. I raised the coin to the light of the fire, whisperin’ a wish so secret I barely knew it myself: “Let today be touched by fortune, even if she’s missin’ teeth and wears two different boots.”
I dropped the coin into the sacred fire can (burns hotter than guilt and twice as loud), and waited for a sign. The flame sputtered. The raccoon that’s been shadowin’ me for two weeks (I call him Smudge) let out a judgmental chirp. And then… the coin began to melt.
Not in a mystic way, mind you. It oozed.
Turns out it was one o’ them chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. Melted goo right into my fire beans, which—oddly enough—gave ‘em a kick of sweetness. Smudge stole the rest when I blinked.
Now, you might think that’d be the end of the magic. A false coin, a melted snack. But here’s the hobo truth of it: Even a chocolate coin can grant a wish, if you believe hard enough and chew fast.
My fire was warm. My beans were sweet. And later that day, I found a near-new sock on a fence post, clean as Sunday thoughts. If that ain’t luck, I don’t know what is.
Keep wanderin’, keep wonderin’,
– Hobo Harry
Seer of Soot, Whisperer of Cans, Finder of Fools’ Gold and Lessons Therein
P.S. If any of y’all find a real coin, try not to eat it. Teeth are harder to find than treasure these days.
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