Her Ten Minutes

Her ten minutes sneak
through the hole of an
iron needle in the hand
of a cobbler, who sits like
a spider at a nook of the city.

She’s broken on her shoes.
‘Wait’, his word stumbles
over rum stink. Passersby
give her ‘tribute’ with their
glances, and the beauty
blushes under the hot sun.

She stoops her proud head,
which sways intermittently
towards the east and the west
to check if some acquaintance
is dropping a belittling eye.

Miss Seena’s rich and noble,
but with a little money.

From issue #16 of The Literary Hatchet (Pear Tree Press, US)