The sound of a highway that is really the wind
pushing down the wrong side of the street.
He stood there with a voice so timid, I wanted to cry-
no- hug him- no- laugh- or-
lay down on the cobblestone right there and
scream the poetry of that moment at everyone
walking by- but- I didn't even
give him a pound because by the time
my heart began to constrict, my legs had already
told me to keep walking along- but-
all I can think about is his hands in his pockets
and the white piece of paper
on the ground at his feet, telling him
the words to a song that he knew by heart.
And there was his stubble and where is his family?
And his hands in his pockets
and I just kept walking.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
The sound of a highway that is really the wind
pushing down the wrong side of the street.
He stood there with a voice so timid, I wanted to cry-
no- hug him- no- laugh- or-
lay down on the cobblestone right there and
scream the poetry of that moment at everyone
walking by- but- I didn't even
give him a pound because by the time
my heart began to constrict, my legs had already
told me to keep walking along- but-
all I can think about is his hands in his pockets
and the white piece of paper
on the ground at his feet, telling him
the words to a song that he knew by heart.
And there was his stubble and where is his family?
And his hands in his pockets
and I just kept walking.
