Walk down the street

Only walk down the street,
to know where you are placed.

On my way to Park Street the other day
I saw monkeys and jugglers lulled asleep,
High on hashish, or some such stuff,
Babies clinging, wriggling about like insects,
Babies so many, some sobbing unnoticed,
Some playing with mud and sticks.
Cooking pots and smoke on the footpath,
Old, desolate men still willing to live.
Dripping tarpaulins sloped on strings,
And water filled in yellow plastic tins,
Hands black with dirt and grime,
Filth accepted as wellbeing.

My sorrow is much less than theirs,
So is my contentment.
Only walk down the street,
And know where you are placed.