The Box

The Box.
Is dark
and cold
and quiet
and alone.

As it sits
Along 5th Street
With a single occupant.
As the whole world
Watches on,
Hating him.
Disgusting, they say.
How can people live like
that?

Well, how can people live like this?

As the box
Is even falling into a
Deep chasm,
He in it.

We live in nice
middle class neighborhoods
Wanting another house upgrade.

Yet that cold alone man, with his single brown, dirty blanket
is a better person than
the rest of us

Like the loss of
Light,
Pitch black, he
Is alone.

Every dawn to wake up
to the same cold,
the same loss of
What he must of had

How sad is it
That we let people
live like
this?
Who are we?
Who is he?

Sitting alone in the cold, quiet box,
on 5th street.





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endend1210 said...
Jul. 3, 2011 at 2:31 pm
I love this poem! I like your perspective on it, that he is better than "us," but like you said, "Who is he?" so, how do we exactly know he is better than all of us? Just thinking :)
 
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