Just Desserts

We could visit Paris, walk in the rain without an umbrella
and sit on the steps of Eglise Saint-Etienne-du-Mont
when the clock strikes twelve and we are back in that club
rubbing shoulders with Hemmingway; shots of wisdom
swirling in cocktail glasses with cherries, olives
or whatever you fancy; culture parading its diversity
in paintings by Picasso that make you take a second look
and wonder where a mind could go to find such muse,
blue and clearer than sea water, these syllables
that taunt you in your sleep, weigh on you in vibrant colors
of indigo, azure; scents of lavender filling pretty stationary
tempting you to write, scratching you from the inside,
these words dying to escape from pink painted lips
that only want to feel that last goodnight kiss.



6 thoughts on “Just Desserts

  1. “…but when my pen moved across the paperskin to move mountains like what we saw, it would squeek with dry throat and tremble and say

    …oh that wine, it made me laff and you looked so CUTE with that escargot, and omg did that waiter actually brush your arm???

    and hey thanks for that lil flower, truth is it breaks my heart more than this Picasso guy, cus he is no Van Gogh…

    …and your laughing lullabye to me last nite as we slept, you there, and me here our stockings half on and half off in our intoxicated heady cuvee of life and grape and sea and garden and you silly songed me to sleep…

    …but i most of all loved when you saw him, Hemingway and pointed him out to me and me drunk just a scosh said he looked like Hawmingway cus he hemmed and hawed so much trying to figure out it he wanted to be brave or be dead…

    …and you cackled like the gypsy woman did when we put those silly hats on our heads backwards and sideways while we lingered at her table in the street and she spelled the money out of our purses…

    most of all I loved that…cus you made me brave and knowing that i was vital and alive and would never die no matter how tired and sleepy i eventually get.

    Love, your companion in our Paris, our Principality of Poetry in our Province of Wonder…your co-conspiritor



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