Naples 1936

The Organ Grinder
  did not compose
The music he plays.

His right hand,
  brown with experience,
Holds the burnished chain
  leading to
The furry one who,
  crouched with baby hands
And tipping hat, awaits
  the proffered coin
And with a quick grabbing pull,
  shoves it
Into the treasure sack.

When night's too late
  and the old dark streets echo
Only the music again
  does the pair move on.

The little one
  curls into his only box
And the big one counts 
  the days
    to find the balance
Before shedding the shiny coat
  for a tired grunt
     and sleep.