While he slept,
   I wept,
He laid behind an
  electrical box,
above ground encased in
a wooden frame,
he covered his face,
with a hood, in shame?
No, just to keep the bugs away,
he had his hand in the waist band of
his pants,
was he twisted,
no he may haps had a gun or
wanted those who saw, think he had one,
his back pack was up against him,
he looked exhausted from the spectres
that haunted him,
sleeping twenty feet from where cars
and trucks accelerated by,
all oblivious to his unconscious eyes,
should I call 911, would that have ruined
this end to his all-night fun,
was he dead,

or just dead to the world,
what altered state, made him pick this bed,
of dirt and weeds, wait, what sort of life has he led,
thoughts of "that could be me," fill my head,

He slept, and
that is all that mattered.