The air is brisk, 

Sending a chill down the city’s brownstone back 

cooling its paine-pieced metal face. 

Beside me, in a bistro chair identical to my own, 

A boy in the broker’s costume performs on the phone in french. 

His watch catches the light as he rattles his limp wrist 

Its emerald green face, a laughing stone. 

His speech is young, juvenile 

Acting now long exhausted, his tortured tone is slow 

He spends long lines waiting for direction, receiving information, 

Participating in silence. 

He hopes not to miss his mark thus his money. 

An art book, opened to the fourth or fifth page, has adorned his lap untouched for most of the play. 

‘Non, Non, Non’ he chides 

Something else catches my attention