Passing Through the Shadows Of Great Buildings

The beggar in plaid blankets wanted to kiss my hand
when it lowered the shiny franc. His eyes sleepy, pleading.

How long might I stand there considering . . . the metal
warming, the light waning. That hand of mine dangling . . . .

Copyright © 2002, 2003 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission