On the corner of my street is a cardboard box as soggy as the man inside it

his hands are cold as the souls of the people who pass by each day with less then a glance or a penny

His hope hangs by a thread come off his ripped and tattered coat

Teenagers throw sticks and stones at him that bruise his joy and heart

The lines under his eyes are as deep as the sea and as dark as the night in which he cries

As I walk by I look into his eyes which stare into my soul

In fright I turn my head and run

Ashamed I am ashamed

I hang my head till it touches the bottom of the earth as I warm up by the fire

I eat and eat yet I feel hollow

Tonight for dinner he has hunger

He rattles his can for money yet no one gives a cent for they are tuned out of his channel to busy swinging there leather purse

I have lots of money but my wallet is full of sadness and I pull out my sorrow covered key as I walk into my house

My bed of cloud feels softer as I think of his sidewalk mattress tonight I shall sleep tonight he will weep

 The man at the bottom of my street

 By Chelsea Hudspeth, age 11