THE WRITER:

She would scribble with cheap blunt old pencils,

Upon used paper napkins, within old Spanish bars,

Where swarthy dark waiters served warm sangria,

In dirty, finger-pocked, & green-glass-blown jars.

 

Bundled in torn coat & fingerless, old frayed gloves,

She sold her scribbled poetry from grey sidewalks,

Hovering in lost memories, now gone & oh so cold,

In cobbled Latin quarters, where only Spanish talks.

 

She´d beg a pittance, for her dead & written words,

Where ageing whores of colour strut & slowly linger,

And when they swore at her, spat, & moved her on,

She´s show them one rude & very bejeweled old finger.