A city street, a hungry man . . .
|On the street, New York City street,
In a trash can lies a red box.
Chicken meat, scraps, skin, flesh and bone
From someone's lunch, waiting there.
Then comes the man, so tall, so thin.
His eyes are hungry. His frown is lean.
He looks to see who watches him
And deftly snatches up the box.
He looks inside at crusty skin,
Bread untouched by someone thin.
Bones and scraps of chicken remain.
His mouth twists slightly with distain.
Then he closes the box again,
Tucks it beneath his arm, turns away,
Carries his prize with practiced ease,
And looks to see that no one sees.