Huddled under the torn canopy
Of one the many shops that are lined
In the dirty dingy street that I live on,
He leaned back against the thin tin shutters
Wrapped tightly in a blanket thick
Heedless of the humid heat of the late evening.
Huge black rats scurried around him
Pitter-pattering as they played energetic games
In the dim street light and the shadows of darkness
Teasing him as they brushed past his blanket.
But he slept on, uncaring, like a little baby
Enveloped in the discomfort of his thick blanket.
And I, hidden in the dark, watched him silently
From behind the bars of my fifth-floor bedroom window.
Unable to sleep in the comfort of my bed
Envious of his placid slumber in the street.