Eyes

Eyes in the distance
Hidden by the night.
Sitting on a bench,
in the deserted park.
Keeping warm with day old
news, another mans trash.
Praying for a miracle, dreaming
of another way, another day.
Cursing the rain clouds
praising the warmth of the sun's rays.
Begging for a torn and worn coat
frightened for life.

Eyes that see more than
You and I, ignored by society.
Considered a disease, unwanted
in this self-concerned world.
Offering a service for change,
just enough to feed himself.
Sleeping in an alley, amongst
a mountain of trash.
Hiding all his pain with gifted spirits,
just another day, no change.
No, he hasn't seen the world,
but his eyes know much more.

King of 22nd Street

The King of 22nd Street
stands idle in the rain.
A bottle in his right hand,
a cane in the left.

Collecting money on the corner,
to buy himself a crown.
Sitting to rest on a crate,
believed to be his throne.

He screams in the night,
"I'm the King of 22nd Street,
got a problem?
You have to answer to me."

The Kingdom turns their backs on him,
some sit and stare.
Lights go out,
22nd Street is bare.

The King bows his head,
tears streaming down his face.
He's down on his luck,
with a bottle of Jack,
lost in a world of pain.





Sandra Murdoch-Becker, Copyright 1994