James Hawkins, poetry

The Night
Changes of many colors, where do we go out of the cold, out of the street. They say the Donut Shop is our haven, some give, some don't. I usually feel awfully upset, seeing the Pizza Shop across the street, it says, "Pizza for Sale," and I gaze at it. Up the corner lies the Express Store, where no one goes, but a lot of money. A cry in the night, "Please, sir, can I have a smoke?" "I don't think I have one." "Oh, oh, yes I do!" Here, man, here's a smoke." In the night of life, life can be cold, very cold.
James Hawkins

The Night

Changes of many colors,
   where do we go out of the cold,
      out of the street.
They say the Donut Shop is our haven,
   some give,
      some don't.

I usually feel awfully upset, seeing the Pizza Shop across the street,
it says, "Pizza for Sale,"
and I gaze at it.

Up the corner lies the Express Store,
   where no one goes,
      but a lot of money.
A cry in the night,    "Please, sir, can I have a smoke?"
      "I don't think I have one."
"Oh, oh, yes I do!" Here, man, here's a smoke."
   In the night of life,
      life can be cold, very cold.

James Hawkins