Lying back on the scratched bench
I heard the sound of horns approaching
A sign of sorts maybe for me to move
I tempered my urges and looked up at the skies
As kids of the night chased each other
Through streets in dreams that stitched together
Their own world where socks were plentiful
Their cuts were because of paper and
Their houses were free from debt collectors
Flashes of yellow made me pitch forward--
I sat up, my back striped and riddled with
Holes of a dream that did not belong to me.