Loose change.

The little boy sold roses every night at the traffic signal,
He's wait for the red light to signal the  emergence of hope.
His hands,too well acquainted with the callouses of persistence.
No love but for an unknown force to keep him warm on these cold nights,
For no  love had he ever known that got him through the ten winters of his life.
His eyes plead,his words insist-Just one rose,but one.
And nothing can deter the fierce want of need-
Of hunger,a universal cause.
He walked from car to car,bidding the cost of his survival.
And when the quick lights flowed again-turned green,
He settled on the pavement,with the mongrels he dwelled.
Not a single rose sold,tonight.Sometime's the waiting was just not right.
Cradled under the yellow streetlight for warmth,he slept on ragged sheets-
Knowing there was love,love someday,at the other end of the street.
And he wondered much and much too deep,
Of the bleak hope of change that glimmered under the streetlight that night.
And there beside him,the unsold roses lay dying,giving away to a dejected day-
A single rose can alter only so much,indeed.