Sweltering spring and
Azure sky looked down on my
Table was wet with coffee
Ring on my finger shown
Pale against the newspaper I
Could not read the local
Language sounded vaguely
Familiar yet different enough
Not to be understandable

She spoke the same language
To me she smiled holding up
Her treasure-Her picture
Postcards in colors and print
I could not read her lips
Stopped moving-she waited
But I could not speak her
Language I said, so she
Addressed me in my own

She was selling postcards I
Had seen in places for free
Postcards for sale by such
A charming lass whom I
Asked the price she said was
As much as I thought they
Were worth to me, I thought
From the hands of such a
Lovely lass were priceless

She lilted as she spoke to
Me in a language she knew
From rote she asked me how
Much could I give her smile
Outshone the afternoon
Sun was kind to our little corner
Of the world was suddenly
Distant as I looked into her eyes
Deep down they cried

She could not understand
Why she must sell free
Postcards in the cafes of the
City bustled with people who
Knew her wares were free
Postcards in her hands were
Valuable-her only hope
To escape the street which
Was so unkind to her

Her hair was unwashed and
Unkempt and dirty barrettes
Held it from her eyes still
Lived defying her surroundings
Made her yet more beautiful
Waif-Her threadbare
Clothes turned satins and
Silks by her simple beauty
Refused to be bowed

I bought all her cards for
A princely sum and sent her
On her way she skipped
Relieved of her burden at
Last she could try to be a
Carefree girl of spring was
Hot and coffee gone I paid
The bill and as I left I
Thought of her rosy lips