Every morning,

Earlier than a rooster,

I wake up and stumble out of my home,

To go out and get breakfast.



I tread through the park.

Looking up I see birds flying about,

Just a few feet above my head.

I make my way to the street.



The Big Apple greets me

With old, beaten cement roads.

People are shuffling about in a hurry.

The sound of horns and sirens cut through the air.



Occasionally a few will glance at me,

And give me disgusted looks.

I shrug it off,

And march my way to that all too familiar bus stop.



I rummage through the trash can,

Looking for a sizable morsel I could enjoy.

Holding that little piece of heaven,

I make my way back to the anthill.