Heat rises in the coliseum
That I call “the city”

Sifting through a penny-worth thrift shop
In the long-forgotten collections
Of brodie helmets and lady’s cigarette holders,
I find a little ring, perhaps a few thousand years too young

Did it once belong to a sultry Persian odalisque?
To a Roman empress, cloaked in luxuriant indigo?
My heart skips a few beats
The clock skips a few minutes

Among these rusted doughboy saucers,
The jewel of all jewels shone past the limp rust green
The murmillo of my heart battled
The thraex of my brain, telling me to pay no more attention

The heat cooled
The storekeeper had switched on the AC,
Depriving me of oxygen further

In the long-gone days of molasses floods
And smoke-signal telegraphs
Had some lady brought her prized ring
To this thrift shop for safekeeping,
Hoping that it would pass only for a cheap, gaudy jewel?
But I see too many flaws in the stone
For crystal to be the make

It feels as though a thousand seashells
Are tearing my skin apart,
Making me jump from it and be free of my restrictions
And fully admire this lady’s opal

Shall I purchase this beauty
That traveled far from Thrace or Tripoli?
Shall I wear this shining star for all my days?

No

Sadly, with no zlotys or francs at hand
I walk from the thrift store, pondering
“What sort of men wore those helmets?”