echoing footsteps of leather soled shoes
nails slightly caught
in that stillness of the rush hour
the day has not lost it's greyness
and the watery air
enhances that clipping plod
as men in light raincoats and kagools
slope shoulders
toward respective garden gates
one can almost hear the ticking
of hand wound watches
in this hour of silence as shops close
their lights dark behind the metal shutters
the goods in window
barely seem through the flattened oblong holes
and the jewelers picked clean
of all but the dust
and single strand of white cotton in the green velvet
The Blue Book
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