You walk down the street,

taking in the view.

Grey cobble and cracked paving stones,

alongside the grandiose gothic buildings

and their green-glass windows.

The perpetual smog has lightened today,

leaving orphaned swirls of smoke to wander

through cool, crisp, clean air,

and you breathe easier than you have in a while.

Business has been good.

You’ve gotten yourself established,

built up a small fortune,

ingratiated yourself with the elite,

moved up in the world.

You walk down the street,

and heads turn.

Foppish rakes, sons of new money, give you jealous looks

as their ingenue paramours blush in your wake.

The debate in the salon pauses for a moment,

when a scholar inside, perhaps a beneficiary of your patronage,

hurries to the window to meet your eye as you pass.

And in the alley openings and on the roof-tops,

there are the criminals, giving cautious nods.

They’re not so different from their marks,

who have learned to doff their caps

when you check in.

They all show you the respect you are due,

as suits their individual predilections.

You walk down the street,

knowing you will own this city.

The people know you, now.

You’ve made your name.