Studio LERIAL

To garner respect under their watchful eye

He gathered the gold-rimmed dust, the dirt, the crumbs

And wove them into a tapestry of pride

Their glassy eyes, tumblers full of island rums

.

That hum of panic, soul’s departure drum will

Lead one down those syncopated streets one

By one, tongue to the sidewalk, sweeper mouth still

Searching for nuggets of gold, thread to be spun.