Underneath The Bridge Poem by Stewart Watkins

Low, way below the wrought, rain and sun-beaten asphalt of man
Dwell empty, hungry, crying souls in search of the master's plan

Some black and some white, some young and some old
All tears shed the same when their sad, sad story is told

The constant roaring of cars as they speedily pass back and forth from atop
Music, yes, this is their sweet melody that plays on and on nonstop

Their t.v. gets unlimited channels and the shows are all the way live
Real T.V. at its absolute best, capturing the conceivable and inconceivable of those in the concrete jungle trying to survive

Walking city streets by day in search of a better way
A nice little spot underneath the bridge at nightfall to lay their heads from a long, weary day

Fugacious comfort is found in the comforter they call cardboard and all sorts of garments
City lights gently intermingle with dusk to signify the end of another day and hope for a better tomorrow with all of her empty promises