By Trash Fire Light, Under Raccoon Watch
Well, I done it now.
Started the day sippin’ dew off a busted harmonica and ended it preachin’ the virtues of anarchy to a congregation of opossums and a surprisingly rowdy gospel band made entirely of drag queens ridin’ a flatbed railcar converted into a glittery chapel. Reverend Cleo Boom-Boom led the hymns. Jasper the raccoon passed the collection hat. Blaze read scripture from a crumpled cereal box.
We were somewhere near the switchyard when the spirit of rebellion — or maybe just a powerful homebrew cider — got into me. I declared it was time to liberate the lost luggage car of Train 63B, rumored to carry the confiscated treasures of wayward wanderers. Spare boots. Forgotten harmonicas. Journals written in grease pencil. Dreams bottled in coffee thermoses.
We didn’t steal. No, no — we reclaimed.
With Blaze distracting the yard master with an interpretive dance involving two flares and a fire blanket, and me whisperin’ wind-speak into the lock like it was a lonely old friend, that door creaked open like destiny herself.
Inside? A trove of stories.
We divvied it up honest — took only what was needed. Leo got a pair of golden-laced boots that finally fit. Pisces found a scarf that smelled like sea foam and memories. I picked a compass shaped like a question mark. Perfect for someone who walks crooked on purpose.
That night, under a moon fat with secrets, we lit the fire high, passed around tin cups of rebellion tea, and sang the Hymn of Good Trouble:
“Raise your can and toast the stars,
To busted rails and prison bars —
Not for crime, but for the grace
To leave no soul outta place.”
So if you hear gospel wailin’ from the rail line, don’t fear. It’s just us — the dream drifters, the truth tellers, the lovingly disruptive. We don’t burn bridges. We dance across ‘em.
Catch ya in the rustle of the leaves,
— Hobo Harry, Collector of Chaos, Harmonizer of Hooligans, and Conductor of Good Trouble
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