Isabella

By the garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, she witnesses the poor, cross Catherine Street, fear in their eyes, torn linen unclean, the soul of lost hordes, someone asks why, they slouch as they walk, who need arranged pity, when greed leaps so high, dances at every party, all of them taught, at feasts in black ties, to deny stuffy thoughts, perish such catastrophe, there'll be no inquiry, please don't feel guilty, expand from our shores, our world view identity, laughs at the noughts, in portfolio lives.