The tear drops of the boy in blue
Under the scorch of the angry sun,
Sends to my soul silent shrills
My hands meet my pocket
Bare feet to the mercy of the tar
His belly speaks the worst
And yells at the dominance
Of the selfish air which seeks balance : Empty can!!
My hands engage my pockets
He smiles at the students
And savors the freedom
Of the space between.
To be one was the imprisonment of neglect
My hands marry my pockets
I turn a blind eye
And drink to my success
I am among the rest chosen first
For I told his story the best.
The pocket is for the change.