Sweet darling in a sleeping bag on the streets. He thinks he hears someone’s footstep as it repeats. The voice in his head sings lullabies’ lines. Lullabies no one sang to him in a long time. He thinks he hears someone’s footstep as it repeats. He’s can’t open his sleeping bag, he’s too meek. Lullabies no one sang to him in a long time. It comes with gentle, rusty, inaudible chimes. He can’t open his sleeping bag, he’s too meek. Nor ask for help, not wanting to be seen as weak. It comes with gentle, rusty, inaudible chimes. He wonders when he can he call his own body “mine”?