The man on the streets
born and bred
with rain and grime
upon his head,

drinks from the water
of a nearby creek.

Water flows.
Stagnant week.

The cars of the many
pass him by.

Gush of mist,
squints the eye.

What chills can come
from metal doors
in which he's never
been before.

Another blue.
Another red.

As rain is falling
on his head

he wonders why
he has to drag
while toting pictures
in his bag

of times that put him
on the road
on which he hauls
a heavy load.

Walking on from
where he's been

he hopes to feel the sun,
but then

a car pulls up
beside of him.

He looks to see a girl.

A young one, probably seventeen

in a car of chrome
polished, clean.

With window down,
she says to him

'It looks like you could use a lift! '

The man on the streets

simply exclaims

'What blessings can come through the haze! '

He walks along
to climb aboard
a mighty vessel
of metal doors

that accelerate
into the night
on a four mile ride
of high beam light.