Golden Clasps

A poor and loathesome begger
Through devious channels
Put his filthy long-fingers
Onto the head
Of a young girls golden curls

“You are my child,” he muttered
Blindly, his rheumy eyes cauled over
“You were birthed in the ancient
Fires.”

She didn’t cry
Even when his rotten, toothless
Mouth
Moved enough to her ear
So that she could feel his whiskers
And his hot breath

“Can you keep a secret?” He asked
His voice trembled with his demand

She nodded and only a mute whimper
Showed that she was more afraid
Than he

“Can you keep a promise?” He looked her
Full in the face
His brown, bloodshot eyes
Scanning her large blue ones

Both sets were filled with tears

Finally she made her lips
Move and murmured, “yes”.

He reached into a satchel
That could have been made
Of most anything

And put into her tiny,
Plump hands
Two golden clasps

She felt that something had happened
The clasp vibrated in her hands

The begger turned and left her
All ferocity now
Gone from him
And he shambled
With broken shoulders
And never even
Glanced back

The girl opened up her fingers
Her face lit up with gold

She murmured, ‘yes’

And put the clasps in the
Bottom of her jacket pocket
And skipped down the street
Where her friends were
Already at play

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