Lady of the Lanes

Sixty-one steps down a spiraling staircase to coffee and curated art.

The glassy-eyed goddess who dwells in the basement, blue swirls on translucent skin.

Blackboards proclaiming their warmly-spiced wares as I wind through the wandering lanes.

Windows a mass of guitars and antiques amidst brown-paper-wrapped bouquets.

Street stalls surrendering trinkets and tinctures to poets in fingerless gloves.

Drum solos drifting through paper-thin plaster, sharp on the smoke-scented air.

Well-trodden planks meet my feet as the streetlife gives way to a long journey home.


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