Down the road of the weary, the mothers sleep on the sidewalks.

Handbags tucked under one arm, sons in the other.
With one eye open she sleeps in half slumber.
The traffic goes easy, from corner to corner,
but it scratches on the nerves of an unpublished author,
that's been a slave to the page since the day he discovered;
how little he knew about the soul.
And the traffic it echos up ladders and stairwells,
it drums at the doors of his room.
It reminds him of her heartbeat when it drowned out the city streets,
as he slept, so well in her arms.
From his apartment window he stares out as the wind blows
and watches the birds flying east.
Like a bride in the shadows his longing to leave grows;
to step out and step off and be free.

Down the road of the weary, the mothers sleep on the sidewalks,
clinging onto to life by their teeth.
And the traffic it echos up ladders and stairwells;
It tragically drums as he leaps.