So much can be said
about an empty flagon
but we choose instead
to buy another, drag on

our pipes and pull an aura
up while you start sneaking
up to the waitress' corner
and I can't keep from peeking

at the lone shining sovereign
coyly waiting for your touch.
You scramble back, I begin
to sip my ale, I ask 'How much?'

The waitress scratches her toe.
Your mouth too full of ale,
you open your palm, there's two
cold coins scratched and pale

from being held in sweaty palms,
from being kissed and bitten.
And now we fling them out to warm
under this cold Cyrenian sun.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Phaestian, in the year 607 AF.