by Gregory Wilde  /  poetry  /  8 May 2008
At night when the pigeons coo,
Hemingway floats into the room,
shots ring out in Parisian skies,
Old man roasting birds on the Seine.
I guess I live in another time,
kill me if you can find me,
But I doubt it's reality.
Yellow socks on her makes me laugh,
The way she rocks up and down,
on the bed at dawn,
Nothing but yellow socks and a black-coal coat.
I once worked in a warehouse,
arranging pages for books to be sold,
Those of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Hunter S.
It always came down to the best.
I miss those Parisian days,
Sitting in the sun of May,
my legs dangling over the Seine,
Men selling books up top,
Boats passing by,
time out of mind.
It's the sounds of France that speak,
A girl in bed,
Food at midnight, dark bars, skipping on the bill, fighting the law,
Museums, taxis, peddlers and burned-out magicians.
It all comes back to Hemingway,
His final shot -- awake.
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