He stands on the street corner,
The filtered cancer in his teeth,
Watching the buzz of speeding traffic,
Holding a bagged greenhouse tightly.

His eyes dance across the shifting scene,
A noisy concerto rings in his ears,
Flashing lights illuminate and hide him,
The art of survival on the street.

A whistling man walks into an alleyway,
Turns and flicks his head askew,
The innocent follows in his footsteps
Into darkness and silence of the void.

An explosion rings inside his head,
A silver comet skewers his chest,
Fire flares through the red tunnels,
Eyes blackened by the raging inferno.

He is a fallen child of the street,
Lost in the purgatory of the slums,
The lush green package slips from his hand
And he flails from the edge of life itself.

Will anyone scratch his name on a grave?
Mourn the fallen child of the scrapheap?
While we enjoy our stinking riches
A child’s life is smothered by the concrete.