Street Corner Symphony

This isn't a fully-established poem, but I don't really want to spend more time on it, so I'll just post it and leave it behind.
----

There is rest, rest assured, in
     sleepy lines of cardboard dressed in
          silhouette trappings of beanied hood-rats

You stand there. You watch it (pronoun unknown)

There is no register, no key
     to capture the sound of silence in
          this broken piano-hand's song as it

Waits for nothing. You stay for

something: you wait for a response, a reason, a
       request, to help make it make sense, so you
       don't let it, pass, it sitting, you stand, hold
       out your hand, a dollar, wait -

Think of nothing. You stay for

reasons you don't yet understand
     it doesn't seem right, you should leave,
          you have a thousand times before when

You didn't see. Things were

easier in childhood, never knowing
     beyond your doorstep, or that some people
          had no doorsteps, then you got older and

believed that this was a tragedy, like
     an awful accident of fate, of fallen grace
          in a piss-colored corner of circumstance.

It looks for nothing. You were always

wrong, it wasn't the one that was
     searching, it had found the ground, found
          rest in that shadowed form of concrete and

was not looking, but you stand so
     still as if you had seen hell, as if you could
          compare it to your imagined vision of heaven

Waits for nothing. Why do you

expect anything different?