This Happens...This Is Something That Happens

I've been listening to Fugazi a lot today.
Last week, at a thrift store in Wilkes-Barre PA, I found paperback copies of "The Little Prince," "The Stranger," and "Lord Of the Flies" for less than a dollar. For the first time all summer, I have something other than poetry books in my backpack, and I'm not sure how I should feel about that.

Yesterday I picked up a hitchhiker named Henry.
He had a mouthful of mush that made it hard to hear his stories,
but once you learned to speak his language they were great stories.
Henry doesn't like the cops very much,
they're always fucking with him.
He has everything he'll ever need to keep him happy in life stuffed in a knapsack he carries on his back.
Henry can't understand why people think that he should be unhappy.
No house just means no bills,
no car just means no insurance to pay and gas to buy,
canned food ain't expensive and water is free,
plus...you just get to see so much of the countryside that way.

He's been on the road for the last two years.
Thumbs his way from Michigan to Missouri just for kicks.
Spent two weeks in the forest with a bunch of hippes,
but he'll tell you right away that he ain't no hippy.

He's a handy man. He can fix a flat tire,
paint a porch, even fine-tune your computer if you need it.
He doesn't ask for nothing, except a ride if you're going his way.
If you've never seen a man smile with every inch of his face,
you need to pull off to the side of the road
if you ever see Henry,
unbathed and exhausted,
walking along the highway
with his thumb in the air and a song in his heart.

W.James
1982-XXXX