Pierre Gringoire in 1943

In a street cave, sewer niche, he clutches
Two coins, bright sweating silvers, the only glitter
Among the black towers. They scald his eyes
And dance like gypsy children. 

A black-haired seamstress once danced for him.
And in the night, mosquito netting clung
To their naked, moonlit flesh. 

The first two silvers bought her a tall drink
And short smokes. In the morning she’ll kiss
His cold blue lips and spend the next two
On nothing more than a memory.


Copyright 2010 by David Alastair Hayden

The End

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