On a sleepless drive, stopped at a light-
I saw a man kicking a rock in despair,-
As he awaited his chariot of situation, battled with
A sign read: Bus 319 troubles to bare-

A women with hair of colored rosary, carried bags as
her man followed-
In a parking lot of the grocery-
On the concrete world of a sleepy hollow-
The wind spoke not of shivery-

I found a book on the ground, next to a homeless man-
Pages torn by years from life's jail-
The great escape, Angola bound-
No P.O. Box, no place for mail-

Under the street light around a quarter pass one-
Sounds of children, having fun-
Whos in charge of their day to day-
Showing them the way, of how the life of tomorrow
could be won-

In my fathers house I see many people-
Shapes, colors, and shades, heads bowed, looking down-
Waiting for the strike of the clock-
To adjourn to their other life, somewhere back on the
Away from the face of a religious frown-

For this daily false happiness they earn and
yearn- Naive they are, to think they can allude-
I be Socrates of the new world, the asker of
A watcher for years-
But not a righteous one, have my eyes interviewed-

For no one is wiser than the wise above-
I do see people trying to be something they are not-
The have knots-
With champagne dreams, so it seems-
Beer money living on a whim, week to week-
Playing the game, trying to just connect the dots-

Out of my peripheral, I see the world at its worst-
A million people, crowded in a place of unknowing-
Trying to get to somewhere, first-
Which way is up or which way is down-
Not paying a damn attention, to where their going-
Out of my peripheral, I see the world in false renown-