Many years ago, in the backside of town.

I saw old men in dirty old suits, with slightly overgrown tapered hair cuts, slicked back with grease.

I heard raspy voiced, wild tales, about adventures on the road. It was like a private club out there, on the sidewalk.

I saw them conserving cigarette butts, by rolling. Eating two dollar breakfasts and drinking one dollar drinks all day. In make shift "holes in the walls", with businesses built from hallways, with bar stools, and a long counter.

Ash trays and condiments down the counters, like an exhibit.

And every seat filled with a worn out man, huddled over each plate.

A dingy, chatter, smoke filled, tight fit. Sometimes with lines of men out the door like a soup kitchen.

I saw this when America was free.

I saw them eke out tomorrow's living, by peddling, pitching, and performing for small bills.

I saw them working manual labor, looking out of place in their suits, dirty and torn.

Like saints.

They were that town, right down to the accent, it was written all over their faces, you could smell it all over them and every town has one of them.

The Noble Vagrant.

He knows where everything's at.

Just ask him some time.