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