The city is a honey pot.
Prospectors prowl pavements for that golden
shot, lured by lies of ingot underfoot.
There is always loose change. Some lost
dropped coinage from hands exchanging goods
a careless pickpocket, pennies thrown back
by beggars needing more than bronze
for habits, insatiable as sin.

Pretty girls, ingénues from out of town
suppose the world bows down to fishnet
stockinged feet. Dreaming of adrenaline
they night climb on to wilder sides,
with other high-wire walkers
on the make. And just where the tight rope
ends, barter all their honeyed flesh
for that one cold glimpse of gold.

*Funambulism = tight rope or high wire walking

Carrie has given us this high walking girl to rouse our Sunday Muse