In this city

I’ve got big eyes that want to see this world

And small ears that strain to soak up all they can

I live in house painted white

On a busy street

In a busy city

And every day I see people peddling their souls

Up and down my street

I look out my window and see the men sitting on the bend

Night and day they’re always there

On the bench that faces the park

I don’t know what they talk about

But I imagine they’re telling stories

Stories of life

Illustrated by each wrinkle on their face

And each callus on their hand

Those hands have worked hard

And haven’t gotten very far

But far is what we tell it to be

And they may go much much further than me.