Our Lady lights the way
as
shift is done, but before
the fun, four flagging
feet round the
corner and
stop under a streetlamp
for a smoke of
salvation.

Is that her apple
in my pocket?

Face to chin under a
shorn Pegasus,
heels scrape down
on cold curb in front of
the obsidian twin who
prowls nearby.

Fingertips graze
tough red skin

Damp bodies huddled
in doorways and
ecstasy hold down
the
night with hot
sloppy kisses; without
them this street would
vanish – but this is
only
conjecture.

Sweetness rolls over
parched lips.

What crime shall
come
to this place
when souls of
the city can
barely stand?

————–

This is the fourth installment in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.