One Night

I sat alone,
a poet without a line,
gazing out
at a moonlit sky.

Gently,
a tear escaped to my cheek
a star dropped,
shooting south.

A bum,
          (pillow made of an old shirt,
                       neath a blanket of
                                   newspaper)
smiled up at me.

Sent a quiet grin
                  I did in
                           reply

Shooting stars
                are meant
                        for fallen dreamers.