Out of The Past

There is an old man in Trieste, who dreams of drawing-room pink. He stands on the narrow steps of a narrow street's brink. He offers flagrante delicto with a slow motion of hand. He is about seventy five and hopes he's still in demand. The Roman theater ruins are right under him as the steps descend further. His act is no whim. His hoarse supplication for love at first sight is still fraught with peril, for happen it might.