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.

OOOOh, I love this. One of your more poetic musings. Very vivid; imaginative; thought provoking.
Thank you, Meredith! I’m not a poet but I do love the sound of words…