Saturday, January 24, 2009
whenever i dip croissant into coffee.
i think of paris and nice.
cold paris and cold nice.
dipping croissant into coffee.
i think of the tarte aux pommes.
in white saint germain on day two.
saint germain is white and blue.
all of paris is white and blue.
the prettiest morning cafe.
family in the corner by the window with the red
curtains and gold letters feeding les oeufs to their enfant.
and i’m crumpling the paper from the patisserie.
and i’m asking for cafe creme ou cafe au lait ou whatever.
and i really don’t fit in.
i think of cold coastal nice on le cote d’azur.
and quiet, empty restaurant.
and the woman in the corner, hiding behind partition.
drinking alone, and i think i saw a tear.
or a handkerchief. and i knew she was sad.
and i didn’t know why.
and i wanted to tell her.
i’m sad too.
george harrison is my only friend now.
i’m just in town for a day now.
and i go to bruxelles tomorrow.
my bed is orange. my heart is blue.
i’m far away. i’m sitting right on the horizon i’d
always wanted to go to.
i thought i’d write.
but there are no words.
so instead i’ll sit. alone.
in paris and in nice.
in cold paris and cold nice.
and dip croissant into coffee.