He needed flour, so he pawned his trumpet.
	He needed salt, so he sold a pint of blood.
In an alley near the market, a stockbroker bought 
	his wristwatch.  It was raining, and the pantry roof 

Had sprung a leak.  He counted his loose change slowly, 
	standing in the shadow of a newsstand, next 
To the New York Times and the hulk of a gutted Volvo.  
	He read a headline.  Thunder.  The air tasted of gasoline.  

He needed water.  And olives — good black Greek ones cured 
	in their own oil.  But where the hell 
Can you get such things in the middle of a war zone?  
	There was a remote golden color in the sky

He’d never seen there before. When the smoke cleared,
	the city yielded a poisonous odor of yeast.