wafting up
keyboard notes from
a crippled man flat on a wheel-bed
playing for his supper
on the walkover’s deck
as we make love
on our hotel bed in
lazy afternoon sunshine
which falls through our
thirteenth floor window
in a sprinkling of motes.
Crossing the walkover later
for spinach dumplings,
I drop coins into his hat.
He responds with
‘Sand shoe’ as clear as day
between bars of days of
wine and roses.