The Secret of the Greenback Broche

"It seems the times have changed."

the raspy voice of this gypsy
echoes
bellows
but nothing
moves from his mouth there
quivering. sitting still
while
both eyes rotate
in their sockets
glossy, ragged
frozen but betrothed
by the mosquito
repelling
candle

he seems to be
remembering
something
anything
to make you feel
for a second as if
he is only
whispering

to you

but he can only be
speaking

to everyone
to everything

each syllable and phrase
pulsating through
space into your mind
disrupting the
most heinous of thoughts
waiting only to prevent
a progression

"afterall," he says, "it is the time to
stand fast."

the wrinkled coats
and glittering jewels
become mist
fog
blackened like the most fresh
crop of corn on the morning

mixing, diffusing

the faint, scent of roasting
boiling to the surface

you are awakened
the coffee brewing
the paper waiting to be read

the mystery hanging on you
like an emerald colored broche

with your head held high,
the new day awaits, yet
lingering only in the shadows