Rich

There hid a magnificence
Beneath that muddy squalor
Where the weeds grew,
And the insects thrived,
And where coins hummed
An infrequently heard jingle.
Beneath this grime
That grew in salty layers
Of despondence, poverty
And hopelessness-
The child still played
With the runaway wheel,
His laugh resonating
Like echoes in a wine cellar
Which hid bottles and secrets,
And stories that you could
Only hear when you listened
Close enough.