Looking down the road, nothing but windblown hopes
A little doll on a tree branch
– two bright eyes
– dried tears on a beautiful face
– looking for mom or a pair of hands
– to pull her out of filth
– somewhere near the DOME
– where hope has always stayed alive
– for years before,
– and the years to come
– the DOME with the fancy signs
– with all the black and gold seats
– and all that noise
– with the city as easy as a little doll
with all that jazz,
is so quiet tonight….
