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Poem

Low, way below the wrought, rain and sun-beaten
asphalt of man
Dwell empty, hungry, crying souls in search of 
the master's plan

Some black and some white, some young and some
old
All tears shed the same when their sad, sad story is 
told

The constant roaring of cars as they speedily pass back
and forth from atop
Music, yes, this is their sweet melody that plays on and on
nonstop

Their TV gets unlimited channels and the shows are all the
way live
Real TV at its absolute best, capturing the conceivable and 
inconceivable of those in the concrete jungle trying to survive

Walking city streets by day in search of a better way
A nice little spot underneath the bridge at nightfall to lay
their heads from a long, weary day

Fugacious comfort is found in the comforter they call cardboard and all
sorts of sordid garments
City lights gently intermingle with dusk to signify the end
of another day and hope for a better tomorrow with all of her
empty promises

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