It was just a normal day for the man in the box.
The sun high in the sky, the clouds grey, easy to mock.
The alley, as usual, was cold and damp.
The only heat from the flickering street lamp.
He laid on the cold sidewalk, just doing card tricks.
While watching the young ones, play ball with a stick.
Sewage clogging, cars a beeping,
Old men yelling because they were sleeping.
The streets were crowded, no more space.
Fights going on, fists shoved in their face.
Gambling going on, yet the man doesn’t care.
Some people give him money out of pity and despair.
Time flies by; tick-tock, tick-tock.
Business men dash as they look at the clock.
Boys play with cars, and girls play with rope.
Teenagers just sit around the street and mope.
Hop-Scotch on the left and a body outline on the right,
Men down the street are playing hoop on the sight.
The sun falls down, and the bars open up.
The only thing the filthy man has is rain water in his torn plastic cup.
A late Saturday night, the man still awake,
People still up, making one more mistake.
Hearing the gun shots blasts and the sirens go off,
Late night smokers on the street with their smothered coughs.
A drunken man stepping out of the bar,
His vision blurry, everything’s afar.
He walks with a cup in his hand, unsteady and out of place
He stops for the man in the box, a dull look on his face.
He hands the man in the box the cup and wishes him a good night.
He then stumbled back home with all of his might.
The man took a sip and laid down for some sleep,
Closing his eyes, and counting the sheep.
Ending the day with a cup of scotch on the rocks,
Guess it was another day for the man in the box.