The boy all in black
sits in the gutter and smokes his smack.
He stares straight ahead,
he’d rather be there doing that
than dead, despite what society
might say about his plight.
He was sure they would say a lot
he was sure they wouldn’t
lift a finger to help,
because you know it’s his fault.
He wonders about the joy of going home,
even the luxury of going on his own.
Somewhere opera plays.
He smiles at the irony of the day.
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