Under the stairwell of the cocktail bar
the hooded figure lays out objects of everyday ritual:
teaspoon, lighter, tourniquet.
Behind the bar an ersatz courtyard paved with astroturf,
foxgloves painted on the wall,
purple digitalis for the broken heart.
From her corner the Mother watches,
whether stone or plaster, her eyes impassive,
unable to look away.
On the street below, the hunger in the eyes
of the seeker, looking for change,
would turn water into wine.
over the water 