The lesbian organ grinder and I* « kvenna ráð

She is a lesbian organ-grinder cranking the tunes,
while I in my monkey-jacket dance and dicker for quarters.
When the streets are swept and quiet we share an ice-cream
and several sideways glances. Life can be surprisingly good,
and Decatur (when whispered) has a haunt all of its own.

When the barrel-organ is bagged over by its green tarpaulin, when Over The Waves and Colinda are a little less than an echo, when there are snatches of silence in the city’s conversation with itself, then the tarp becomes a tent, a wickiup, where little kisses still with the cold nip of vanilla thrive, like hints of an inheritance to a covetous nephew…

[* by special request]

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