The vagabond outside
your window, is spewing
up his dinner onto
your door, while the crow flies
above unaware of the
events down below,
next to the broken piano
in the alley, or the
screaming sirens rushing
by to help out somebody
who is trapped by their own
idiocy, as the red evening
awakens to a shrill call 
from the ******* on
the corner, and the
old man trying to sell
the last of his peanuts,
in time to get home to
see his wife and kids,
and eat what they call dinner,
and what you and I call crap,
perhaps.