This is a poem I wrote in mid-September. I’m still dealing with increasing the clarity in my writing, in prose and especially poetry. I remember this one was particularly unclear. I had France on the brain when I wrote it.


122 B.C.


Pink and light blue

And one imagines a baby girl once lived here

A room for guests with windows

You can’t see through.


But don’t open the windows,

Or the souri will scurry in,

Crawling on the white tiled floor

Running in desperate circles.


They don’t slither in the side door,

Seeking the sweet perfume smell of the whole house

Not even for the cantaloupe

Or the yellow bread.


A picture hidden up on the shelf,

Safe away from view, of a familiar flag,

Another of a drab fountain,

That may as well not be there.


No one’s home, not me,

The gate closes and the dogs,

“Don’t worry, they won’t bite!”

And an old man whose eyes won’t meet mine


Nice new pavement, angry drivers,

It’s not the waves or the legs they look for;

Just the green light,

Or a sick sounding siren.


Tires pass over ancient uneven rectangular stones,

Dog-walkers keep their heads down,

Avoiding dirtying their shoes with brown muck,

As automobiles miss them by centimeters.


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