Dreaming Of Isadora Duncan Poem by r james sterzinger

Walking with her through Avenue Champs E'lysees'
Her long blood red scarf taken by the breeze.
A ragged beggar stops us
From his soiled pocket he offers to sell
A tincture, made from the breath of fifth-century saint.
She implores me to pay, she has no money,
I reach into my raincoat, give the bum a few francs
Opening the bottle to my lips
I breath in heavily
I awaken, stare at the ceiling
For a long time…..