The City sleeper

Sleeping under the stars on an old cardboard box

Wearing ragged old threads that used to be socks.

Then waking

Shaking his pockets  looking for money

Funny there is none there

But he doesn’t care.

Neither a borrower or a lender

Living in splendorous solitude

With lips that are chewed and yellowing eyes.

Then a nice surprise

A kindly City gent perhaps with a bent for sad cases


A ten pound note in to the City sleepers hand.

To the sleepers eyes a marching band.

He buys his cider and twenty smokes

Laughs to himself but only he sees the jokes.

And when it starts raining the money remaining

Will buy another box for a bed

Or another bottle of cider instead

And his day has been fed

By another slice of his life.


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