I sit here in my cardboard box
as the rain falls slowly down.
This is my home, it’s where I live,
here in the midst of town.
People hurriedly go on their way;
I sometimes see their backs.
They pay no mind that I exist.
Most all umbrellas are black.
I close my eyes to get some rest
and shiver with a chill.
I drift to sleep
— to endless sleep —
not sure of how I feel.
I dream of clocks without their hands
and dream of nothing more.
A drop of rain wakes me up.
The time is half past four.
The drop runs slowly down my face;
why won’t it let me be?
It tears away at my house and home;
tell me, what’s so great about spring?