The Man

Black and white pulp fiction
And now it is soaked in rain.
It is troublesome waiting here to die.
The Obituaries are stuck to my thighs,
A cynical message of my future demise.
On my corner,
Where I sleep every night,
I am warmed by the suns rays
And cooled under ebony skies.
They do not have conditions,
Do not criticize,
Do not lie,
Do not make reproachful inspection
Accusing me of neglection.
On the corner, On my corner,
I lay where shoes have trampled,
Where men like me but before me have died,
On my corner.