maybe i can write a love poem tonight,
something
so i can walk out of this cafe justified.
who knew being in Paris in the springtime could be so mundane;
i've seen more drains and dogcatchers than dreamy-eyed girls
a walk down the Rue Delambre yeilded nothing, no inspiration, and both my socks
are wet beyond the toe.
I question my muse as i refuge from grimy sky and street,
clutching not a masterpiece of profound literary merit, but only
a sodden copy of today's Liberation.
The greyish daylight faded into rainy twilight about an hour ago,
and as i sit here with hands done over in undeserved inkblots
my thoughts are dismal: i can't even write
a sonnet
or a charming couplet
or even a depressed, angsty paragraph about the marble of the fountains
made paler by the rain;
right now i doubt i could write my own
name with confidence, i don't think the vowels would fit somehow.
Mon Dieu, who knew being a starving artist would be such a trial!
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