Sitting on the side of the street
I feel all the important people pass me by:
Moms, Bisnessmen, Toys R Us workers.
My shirt looks like it came from
old Goodwill from the Bronx,
one where all the clothes are sprayed
with yurine smelling perfum before they are sold.
I present my small cup to the people hoping to hear the sweet sound of spare change hitting the bottom.
Some of these passing people carry sharp nives with them,
the kind my dad freqently used on my mom:
a nife of words
If he works he won’t have to be on the street?
and my hart bleeds becuse I wish it that easy.
Some of the passing people carry lies with them
and those hurt more than the nife
I’m sorry, I don’t have any money on me
but the jingle in their poket never lies to me
One older man stopt in his walking
and nelt down to my face.
Hello young man, I’d love to help you. How old are you?
I wuz surprised he didn’t back away from my smell
and I answerd:
Sir, nine years old.