"Well, I do hit the club circuit once in a while, in between evenings trying to write the next great American novel," she said dryly."And how's that g...ing for you?" Slowly. Ve-ery slowly."I tsked in mock disapproval. "How very disappointingly yuppish of you. I was expecting a more cultured lifestyle befitting a literary soul such as yourself. You know, poetry readings, plays, nights out at the symphony, gallery showings, and the like." Nope; completely non-stereotypical, that's me," she replied. Yet... , sometimes late at night, in my memory, if I listen closely, I can still hear my dad's soft voice, singing sweet and low, floating languidly, out of that old back bedroom.One of the songs he often used to sing to my siblings and me, which we always loved, was entitled, "Hobo Bill's Last Ride." It was a song about the tragic life of a Hobo named Bill. That song, became my inspiration for this story about another Hobo. The Hobo, the other Railroad Bums used to affectionately call ... Hobo. More

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