My life is open like a wallet snatched by a pick pocket

And empty to his dismay, he looks around

Sees me staring at the ground

At a picture in the puddle

Of my only memory

On the cobblestone streets near the cathedral

My reflection distorted by the dips between stones

Dirty rain water painting of this face I used to know

I am alone.

Quiet and hungry

No words to unfold me

I seek satisfaction in the stench of the city

Brought about by the hobos and mopeds

These are the days I most often recall

And there is some kind of peace I can find

In these moments

That feel so tragic but utterly truthful