Canned Biff

I know a man, we'll call him Biff
an independent soul, is he.
He roams the less traveled paths,
and beds down under a tree.
He's not afriad to speak his mind,
or pray on a bended knee.

He'll search for just the perfect words
leaving you not much to  say.
Eating as little as the birds,
wearing clothes in the style of "fray".
Aluminum cans & copper
are his quest from day to day.

Sensitive in nature,
yet pragmatic in his thoughts,
the desert breeze puts on the squeeze,
tying most men's souls in knots.
With weather, his lone companion,
he connects the dots to dots.

He has no need for protocol,
his itinerary's few;
some days, time beats for him, alone...
leaving him, not much to do.
But, mostly he's a servant
to his jaded point of view.

You probably won't notice him
as he roams from place, to place;
his gaze evades judgemental eyes,
but, he'll look you in your face...
..and give you your own flowers,
he picked, and arranged in your own  vase.

Not necessarily a loner,
but, always living on the go,
the wealth he owns, is measured not...
..in increments you'd know.
For he is free of most the chains
that binds the status quo.