He sits alone
Beneath the street light
On the cool shiny red bench
All alone
But for the netbook cradled close
In the lonely hours before the dawn
He scavenges the bits and bytes
From the library wifi
Is he writing his kids?
Wife and family safely ensconced
In a little house of warmth and comfort and safety
Is he writing the great American expose
In the fear and emptiness of the streets
Is he fbi operative (in his or our reality)
He watches
As i drop off books
Overdue again
He watches
As covertly
And as lonely
Computer held
Tight and close
He is tether
To reality


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