if it was a purse full o' gold

I'd be picking at the stitches,

fingering the lint.

there's a man at the door

pulling at the bell

dozen roses in his hand

blood red no thorn.

in the cooling bath

the steamy warmth clouds the room -

walls dripping sweat.

the bell don't sound.

there's a man sellin' mysteries

from a rickety card table.

I smile and walk away

touching lint in my pocket.

3/3/2023