Spring

Clock

Spring

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?

 

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Poetry

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