Down In A Hole
by Michael S.
Collins
There is a man
in a hole in the high street. No one knows how he
got there, how long he been there, or what he
wants out of the situation.
He seems to
sit down there, merely singing away the day,
harassing passers-by, and living off scraps
little children threw down to him.
Through rain
and snow and shine, he mumbles strange prayers.
We never knew
if he wanted out.
Then he died.
So we buried
him.
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