Worth

He lives in squalor.
Lights are dim,
heat is gone.
His winded breaths
puffs of air,
steam spewing from a kettle.

Alone, with no one
to share in his misery,
his wealth is gone,
passed from the dirt-caked hand
of one beggar to another.
Still, the worn leather sits
resting in his back pocket.

A vessel for money,
but none inside.
Within, a few coins clang,
the bleak peal of a clock
ringing through the square,
both hands pointing North
as if reaching for the sky.


Why do his hands travel so often
to the supple wallet’s skin?
Clutching at the empty dream of something more.

The world is unsure.
Only the rats and roaches
scuttle from crumb to crumb,
their footfalls spreading whispers
of the true treasure
that lies within.
1943 it reads, the frayed photo
of the girl with lips curled
into a smile.
A single ray of light
shadowed by the memory of something lost.