The Blanket

In the fight for the blanket, For a spot under the roasting sun, Here a lot turns into a little, And the world through the eye's tiny window Shrinks to less than a dot, Two-thirds of a needle's eye, And bounces over every bump. And sounds, once they fall into the ear's shell, Fly clean through, barely grazing the drums. Only a track in the untouched dust. And hands shoved deeper in pockets, With a walk that's confident enough To look for more in the small. To stroke the sphere with a sole, Hauling the blanket on your back.