What would they make of me
In his painting, alone at dusk,
Waiting in a café in Paris?
Perhaps one of them will peer close enough
To catch the hint of absinthe in my breath,
And I could whisper: There is a street
Going south to an abandoned train station
Where many stories have left their remorse
On the wrought-iron benches. I could say
There is a river on whose banks you could
Walk ten miles to a village where the mime
And the fool danced a story like a duel:
There once was a woman and a man
Struck dumb by roses, pursued by lightning.
They were brought to their knees by bees.
The woman sits here, alone in a café
At dusk in Paris, not in hope nor in regret,
But in time. As if every moment now
Could be the beginning of a different story.
