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PEOPLE
Who is this bum
Who welcomes the morning
with a derisive hiccup?
Who is that awful old bag
Who tells me her life story?
A devil looks in at the window.
He laughs. He clutches his prey.
The bum puts on airs
recites poetry.
But I leave them and go off,
to admire the pale
Yellow, hazy and familiar,
of the sky on the glazed cobblestones.
