In Dubrovnik, in a building, on an antique floor.
With the cutting edge of glass against the skin at the throat.
From the basement to the attic, running back and forth.
In the middle of a room through the ice and the storm.
We took the dope that we had, packed up as much as we could, threw a rock through the solitary window in the room.
Took the clothes on our bodies down to the open bag of trash, laying to rest every goddamn good thing we had ever had.
From the door, to the stairway, to the street, through a gathering storm;
Never getting warm.
In Dubrovnik, at a pawn shop, an exchange for more.
In the mail at the building an arraignment for court.
From the shelter to the elements, running back and forth.
From the shelter to the elements, right back to the store.
We took the cash that we had, packed up as much as we could, took the trash with the clothes to the backpacks and the goods.
Stuck a plug in the basin, possessions intact, started the faucet, the sink overflowing the edge.
From the door, to the stairway, to the street, through a gathering storm;
Never getting warm.
