Street of Jewelers
by Charles Simic, from Night Picnic

What each one of these hundreds
Of windows did with the gold
That was melting in them this morning,
I cannot begin to imagine.

I act like a prospective burglar
Noting the ones that are open,
There curtains drawn to the side
By someone stark naked,
I may have just missed.

Here, where no one walks now,
And when he does, he goes softly,
So as not to tip the scales
In the act of weighting
Specks of dust in the dying sunlight.