He was walking in the morning, Sunshine
a green and red pizza-sliced umbrella hung over his head
like a clown’s frown
He was neither here nor there but anywhere was better than his here and now

With a grey rag wool cap on his head and
a scratched up pair of $3.99 Aviator sunglasses covering his tired and muddy eyes,
he looked like some godforsaken Howard Hughes, waiting for Godot
But you wouldn’t know how he carried his world full of blue in a wrinkled leather satchel,
his personal box of rain that seemed almost attached to his hip

It was far from cool, this game, maybe this joke
kept his rarer than rare smiles in his bag, next to his smokes
because nothing made sense anymore, and it hadn’t for sometime
his box filled with rain, this life without rhyme
So one day He was walking in the evening sunshine
at least the sun don’t ever lie
and sometimes that just has to be enough
for a guy called Sunshine . . .