by Judith Howe

Clacking against cobbles
Of polished high-heeled boots
As the tattered culprit is chased to his doom
Crossing sweepers shoved aside
As the criminal is crossing
Streets of grey and black smoke interrupted by
A single blood-red handkerchief trailing in shock
Clutched desperately in the destitute hand
Of the scrambling small
Unknowing matador
To those who pursue him
Coins jingling in their pockets