The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
The Grand Hermitage

Every wanderer has a home
though some lie mired on a mountaintop
the hermit dazzles his shell in 
the lunacy of inside jokes 
ever to guffaw at his own aging cracks
garbed in the crimson livery of the 
skinless who smile in a drug-faced grimace
pressing their muttering lips against
the timidity of window panes with
the icy breath of evanescent intention
soon to surrender to the meandering 
way only his feet may find with such
unshoddenfreude and unkempt intoxication
from the thinly atmosphered excursions
made beyond this orbit and hobbiton
bringing back inscrutable trophies
another day's societal garbage 
for those who refuse to believe
in aliens, those fellow wanderers who
cavort into our ken to steal the trimmings
of those who never wink or pass beyond
their bordertown ramparts anchored in
their well worn clockworks gasping at 
the horror of the untethered authority
of the road wealthy and hearthless.
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