Brown Cobblestones

Brown rain falls down to brown streets
And brown shingles and gutters
As a pale fog creeps around a woman on the street-corner,
Her shoulders bare, her dress there in ribbons,
Tied up and down in sections drowned
With velvet blood red bows.

And in the parlors, against their walls,
Against  red, cracked, and shoe-stained walls,
These maidens sigh of ribbons and gold,
While doctors sing their praises of the old.

But who would give them time,
We'd cry as mottled shoes gave way to thighs
No wider than a tee.
And who would die, in Bourbon high,
Or in Bordeaux or Versaille?
Or who should die, in backstreets dry
Or gray cellars paved with ice?

Yet the women came to ask if we knew,
While scholars read Camu to say, "who?"
Or of Milton in irons, his cape gilded gold,
Begging alms in support
Of the Great Sultan of all?

And there in the spotlight of a single candle's glow,
The choir girls would sing
Of daffodils and roe,
While we poor beggar's eyed
Their pocked thighs
No wider than a tree.

And there in the limelight of a single candle's gloam,
Or in the mirrored silhouette of a window sill,
We sit
And watch the smog saunter on by.