The world didn't change while I slept.

Cardboard chill is still my home,

soot covered broken bridge my ceiling,

how it trembles in fear of roaring

diesel progress, waking the night,

challenging the day, cracking

weary bricks.

At dawn the world is empty,

as is my stomach,

as are my dreams.

Industry sleeps but

anticipation spikes the air.

Soon, they will swarm;

the rich to their city eyries,

heads in the clouds,

heads of business, heads of state,

heads or tails,

decisions wait!

Blue collars,

in ones and twos,

marching to a swagger tune,

booted and muted

by a sleep disturbed,

but now I must dine,

on sell-by dates earlier than mine,

second hand,

second place,

second to the human race.


As my dignity is crushed

by a well heeled boot

in a faceless rush

memories of clean despair

define a life no longer there,


beware. . .


Here but for the grace. . .

this grimy hair could frame your face.