FROM RAGS TO RUST

FROM RAGS TO RUST
    — By Michael Jerry Tupa

Rich or poor, we all play the role of hoboes,
separate boxcars on a long train called life
trapped between sunrise throes and red sunset glows,
enduring bruises, bumps, rattles, pain and strife.

Some tired travelers stand out, encompassed,
like royalty walking through adoring crowds.

Famous or not all come from the same dust —
crying first from breath's first rush,
crying last from the sting of death,
everyone decaying from the self-same rust.

No matter the curves and miles our destinies
blend on this journey that starts with birth
We choose our own scenery, swamp or the trees,
while bouncing years lurch by like a blurry dream,
some of it in sorrow, some of it in mirth.