Windows high and open

The Sahara warms my keys.

Pigeons pirouette outside my bars

curved and worked to ban the world.

And through the hammered iron I watch

feral cats shop the gutter

as Arabic and French stutter

on cobblestones below.

A balding tom with orange mange

shrinks into an earthen pipe dug and laid

a thousand years ago today.

He dines in quiet dignity

safe from all

but nature hungers.

Our existence here is nearly done.

I contemplate the temerity of us all

acrobat, scavenger and scribe.