John Doyle writes

Coins

My caravan starts in the hostel on Francouzská, 

coins knitted on ringent window-cill
3 stories up - one slip and the street owns my soft-fiscal music;

I continue this tale,
San Francisco, Chancellor Hotel, 
nickels stacked like hunchbacks in the wardrobes tautened cubby;

When it's finders keepers, and the coins' narrative stops, 
Crusaders, Bedouins 
somewhere, place coins on their sacred mount, the narrative's zinc 

orated through
the sprints of sunlight, in Francouzská, 
San Francisco, fingerprints touching, hearing the tales of left-behind change

A still life of coins, letters, a silver tazza, gilt vessels, jewelry and a silver beaker upon a table, a miser haunted by demons beyond -- Hieronymus Francken the Younger