“Paris, Rome, Christ how I miss them!”
The old poet said
Boozed up
Sighing and belching
Slowly shifting his heavy body
Off the bar stool and onto the floor
“Remember…” he said to me
“Paris, you must escape to Paris
Before it is too late”
He sighed once more and maneuvered
Unsteadily towards the door
Near the door a girl approached him
“Date?” she said, warmly and softly,
Touching his weary old face
“Why not?” the old poet replied
Taking the girl’s arm and departing
His eyes full of sadness and grief
I sat alone sipping my Bloody Mary
My own bright future blazing like
Diamonds in the bar-room mirror
Oh yes, I was buoyed by drink and a poet’s sorrow,
Pitying my poor old comrade
His talent squandered
On cheap booze and cheap women
Forever lost in the graveyard of Paris
Forever wandering the streets
Of his long dead Rome
Where did it go wrong for my friend?
Not enough strength in the jaw?
I appraised my own firmness in the mirror
I put my hand to my chin
Was it growing just a tiny bit slack?
No!
But then
I considered all the paths my life might
Descend between this bar stool
And the bitter end
I sighed
Time passed
And I, drinking, pondered life and fate
And began to grow slightly maudlin
Until I felt a soft motion
As if a skein of silk touched my cheek
I turned and it was the same
Child of spring
Who’d departed with the old poet
She’d returned
And fresh as a daisy
Sat next to me smiling
Seeming so gentle, so pure, so sweet
“Date?” she murmured softly
As a kitten’s kiss
“Why not?” I replied
Watching myself
In the mirror as I spoke
My eyes full of sadness and grief
