The frosted cobblestone street gleams in the moonlight.
I step aside not to break 
the honeycomb of small vintage mirrors 
echoing the throbbing stars above.

The moon smiles on me,
like a gold-toothed gypsy 
about to sweet-talk me 
out of the last dime in my pocket. 

The wind is salty, 
scratching my copper bearded cheeks,
howling through my pockets 
and my empty stomach. 

No soul on the street,
but flailing  birch trees 
shedding their ivory bark 
in whispered resignation. 

I am but a beggar. 
There are holes 
in the soles of my boots 
and my soldier coat has seen better days. 
But I got a silver tongue 
and before the frost is over 
I will coax 
that silver-dollar moon 
into my pocket.