North Elm Street

There’s a man at the end of the sidewalk.
He waits there everyday;
a quarter of five, at the end of the walk
he hasn’t a word to say.

Spends his time waiting there on the sidewalk
as the people, they rush on by
going home from their office computers
hoping to give life a try.

And he dances at the end of the sidewalk
to the beat of the cars driving by,
always smiling as to each car he waves
high on life and the birds in the sky.

But the people, they rush by the sidewalk
never slowing, not daring to chance;
they’ll live their lives, live their lies
always wishing, like him they could dance.