MARSEILLE
In Spring, every captive nation in the world
decides to flee : to places unknown. That
includes you and me. I wallow in the want
of each new bloom, every willow strap, each
skunk cabbage piling. Even the brackish
water has (suddenly) great things to say.
And oh, do I listen.
-
Right now, I sit back, eating French pastry;
things brought to me by a sweet young girl.
She thinks I'm humble, a nice old guy. I'm
sure she's working for a minimum wage, a
barista's take, a tipster's beneficence being
sought. That's OK. I give all I ought.
-
This is airtight living, this fatal American act.
Couch cushions askew, some shitty art up
on the walls; local spinners plodding out
their crafty pastels and oils. The usual
dog/cat/farmhouse/flower routine. I look
askance at all this chance and thank my
my lucky stars once more for Marseilles
(and having been there just the other
day).
No comments:
Post a Comment