Cuddled under a blanketed canopy,
riddled with holes making a makeshift starlit sky
Is a greasy little man named Poe.

He breathes in the stench of the city
Of the trash cans and alley cat ****.

He hears the life around him.
The beeping of passing cars
The rattle of the subway tearing through the sky
Shouts of the stumbling drunks
The whistle for a taxi
And the melodic laughter of old friends.

And he breathes.
He breathes in the frigid air around him and feels it travel through his body.
It freezes his nose, shakes his lungs
brings goose bumps to his limbs
and drives his body to shutter and shake.

And he thinks.
He thinks of a warm bath
A lit candle
A blanketed duvet
A full stomach
brushed teeth
a soft pillow
and the warm touch of a loved one.

He dreams of better places and better times.
Of a house with a roof
And a morning with a purpose.

These dreams take him to a faraway place.
And camouflage the reality of his life.

These dreams keep his heart beating
His lungs pumping
And the slightest smile to his weathered lips.

In an alley, under a blanket of misfit stars
Lays a man named Poe.

He's a vagabond.
He's a dreamer.
He's a surviver.