She lives alone
at the top of
the stairs
on that famous
street of one
thousand stares
and lounging
you may never
know she is
there, seducing
the senses of
the visiting princes
the madcap poet
the doctor, the man
from India,
anyone with a sin
to convey, or maybe
just a tale will
emerge in between
the cozy walls,
lights low and soft
or bright,
she is home day
or night to so many
ideas, midnight rambles
earthly shambles
love stories, morning
glories, all of it
hidden behind the
façade of history
she remains a mystery
even to those of us
who worship at the
gate, we bring our
words and quirks
our sounds of mercy
and laughter
pangs of remorse when
we are foolish, and
often the dead faces
of ghoulish souls
long gone from
in front of the
then, all alone
comes the day
when she is
unable to give
that gift, remove
the sorrows for
an hour,
say it isn’t so,
there must be
somewhere to go,
don’t leave us NOW,
we were just
beginning to be
good at this,
grand lady of
the row, we beg
you to stay,
a crowd of lost
the reality has
set in: Can’t we just
begin again…
sounds in the
night take flight
dawn appears,
you are loud
and clear!


©J.W.WINSLOW 6/1/11