We don't talk much We work hard, with cold, callused hands. We live in dirty street corners. We have forgotten how to smile. We don't remember much last year, today, tomorrow all intertwined and faded, folded, forgotten and discarded. We don't care much for selfish, soft, spoiled hands. Indifferent stares that walk past in cool, calculated strides into the concrete jungle. We are frightened with haunted eyes, broken feet, curled toes, and hunched backs, from laying on concrete. We don't eat much, we sit in places where people walk, we don't use cups for drinking, better for dimes and pennies. We don't talk much but if you'd only ask we'd tell you. We are the killers, the victims, the bystanders to call witness. We fear nothing, we feel nothing. We are dead and no longer know it. There is no beginning and no end. We have no joy, sorrow, no tears left to pity ourselves once more. We have only this tattered coat and a blank stare.