The signal turns red, cars crawl to a stop
A few have windows rolled down, most are discreet
The sun is harsh, the road a molten lava sheet
A little brown orphan urchin, taps on a window
Her voice pleads, eyes rove and heart soars
While the tar shrivels the skin of her bare soles

Time is running out, the signal turns green
Will she get something? Should she heed the heat?
Hope makes her stay and singe her feet
Little burnt feet run along with the car picking speed
Empty handed she stares at the disappearing tail
Hope makes her go to the next signal

She counts, hope tells her she can do more
Hours go by, the sun turns sore
Everybody returns from work, she muses
Her work’s nothing but their journey
She counts, enough for a bread and marrow
Hope says perhaps there’s dessert tomorrow?