Digging for dog-ends in the concrete ashtray

Looking to breathe in something to burn

Tattered remains of a consumed yesterday

Nothing but roaches and ash for the urn

Grey is the pavement

Grey is the sky

Red is the traffic light

Green is the eye

Here in rags worn by decades

Rain-washed cotton clings to sun-soaked feet

Paper cups for change will beckon

Weary heads make beds of the street

Grey is the firmament

Grey is the heat

Green is the eye

Red is the concrete