deepundergroundpoetry.com

Cardboard Box

I look out from my cardboard house in the dirt, sleet and scum,
To keep a wrinkled eye on walking psychos who may like to pinch my bum.
When I turn aching head I realise I smell like a cow pat,
But that�s not unusual when I look out onto my newspaper mat.

I go out onto the misty street. I see ravenous police dogs.
That is when I stumble towards my side-street bog.
Policemen kick and push beggars off the scene,
To make the street look reasonably clean.

Old men and woman look cautiously in the air,
Their face and eyes filled with despair.
Young children shriek and scream,
Never having the taste of vanilla ice cream.

Some young men have a lot of booze,
So they can occasionally calm down to have a snooze.
If only people would notice and care,
So I could have a change in underwear.

People give me hard looks and stare,
But I have learnt now not to care.
I go back to my cardboard house,
Now being shared with a family of a mouse.
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