Her Ten Minutes

Her ten minutes sneak through the hole of an iron needle in the hand of a cobbler, who sits like a spider at a nook of the city. She’s broken on her shoes. ‘Wait’, his word stumbles over rum stink. Passersby give her ‘tribute’ with their glances, and the beauty blushes under the hot sun. She stoops her proud head, which sways intermittently towards the east and the west to check if some acquaintance is dropping a belittling eye. Miss Seena’s rich and noble, but with a little money. First printed in The Literary Hatchet (issue#16)