If you read, please feel free to critique.
Although his clothes are all a motley
Crazy quilt of rag and patch,
Down here, nobody eyes him oddly:
In this poor neighborhood, they match.
He’s in arrears to his landlady.
(He dodged her on the stairs.) He’s prayed he
Won’t be made by fate to meet
Some former classmate in the street.
‘Raskolnikov!’ the fool would holler,
‘At last! What happened? Don’t pretend
You haven’t time to talk, old friend.
Please, let me help a fellow scholar….’
The fancied friendship makes him sick.
He strides the sidewalk triple-quick.