They move the sleeping man on
like there’s some place he belongs
as a rich Russian’s news stand’s
merchant sings his paper’s songs.
You skip over their litter
in a dash through inky news sheets.
Audio, visual versions play out,
in front of your wide screen seat.
If in luck he’ll hostel it tonight
and see you after tomorrow’s pints.
If you break enough notes,
some coins will pity his plight.
To be a moved on sleeping man
is a twisted tale we’ll never unwind.
We like to think we’re aware
as much as we’re utterly blind.