Sad sleepy angle of the morning rush,
I can hear my faith coming back to me now -
He squanders time on thoughts of the fourth undertruth,
drags his toes against the pavement as the sun lights
the workers way – and it is far from spring!
The economy baits you out of bed and reels you in
to your particular place of business
and on your way, clean shaven winkle templed Sam
- the homeless illustrator – cries over his chalk drawing
of the pulsating crossroads – And you sigh
at the silence of your thoughts -
Reliance on your contorted apprehensions,
peppered by the great skyscraper depression
and your personal obsession with having everything
work out just fine -
...You keep telling yourself that everything will be just fine...
You plug in – earn a weeks worth of bread and gas -
log out - pack up – turnout – log in -
And clean shaven wrinkle tempered Sam,
this time cross-legged like ashy monk because today
spring was not long far off – adding shade
to his exaggerated skyline – His tired pit silent but
by his side – And your room is so quiet!
The walls are bored sleepless.
And you walk by wondering
'Who is the poorest of the two of us?'