Boxes on a Hill

The little people of all the colors come about
They come about on many crooked streets,
Out from their little boxes to the waiting world
Down many stairs as they rush away to eventuality
The passing cable cars carry them to destinations
Up and down, Up and around, all over town
And when they get to their temporary boxes
They will sip upon javas, eat many pastries
Some will even pretend that they must work
Few will give their parking meter nickels away
Those who do, give bread to sidewalk musicians
But mostly they just work, and stare out windows
Until they can return to their waiting, windy world
They oft blow their horns when they ride home
Blaring inconsiderate noises from their little painted boxes
Giants will fill a coliseum down by the bay around dusk
Those who have left from work will want to watch
Those who cannot watch, They pull out music boxes
At night, they wrap up against the biting of the wind
Walking and whistling themselves back to their little boxes
And all of this happens over and over, down by the bay

When Asked

Itching, Incessant Scratching
It comes, Then it won't
The next to best the last
Seldom any silent eyes
Fingers bite away dreams
Production forced outward
Anxiety in a hamster's wheel
Doing, Being, Watching...On
Days, Months, or Years
What  Calibration have these
Working in a wet, damp house
Riding silently among the wind
Always they watch, like waiting
Particles of wood minus fuel
Maddening verses unrehearsed
That's much of what writing is
Answering whispers with pen