“Pounds for my starlets!”
So says the dancing man
capillaries crimson
sweating through his
woolen disguise

Slow rolls his shameless tender
this damp existence estranged;
wheezing walk through charcoal fog
threshold broken,
light the lamps

Naked now,
nothing surrounds
vulnerable charlatan,
a crease in a crisp society
lumbers into slumber

Below, street corner harlots,
slaves signed in his paper, they
stare up to his darkened window
say small prayers, hoping
the Angel of Death hauls him off