Prose in the Moment; Poetry in Memory

Blind men ring bells at Dawn, 

like the morning call of the Muezzin, 

stirring God’s children from slumber. 

Hot sweat stings eyes at Noon, 

from hard chores, making old machines 

do new work for tattered dollars. 

 Baked meats send scents at Dusk, 

 through busy streets to the Mezzanine, 

 tempting tired workers to gilded tables. 

 Dark skies paint dreams at Midnight, 

 as music floats from lacquered mandolins 

 through broken panes to the beggars below.