We chose the day when the sun shines most
to meet and write from coast to coast
Our group was six, now down to four
Across the globe we're many more
Like ghosts in gowns the chandeliers
in gauze-like fabrics disappear
Hermès's wings fly far ashore
in this old pool's deluxe décor
Hail pounds the roof of our safe café
as we pound back a smooth Gamay
While rain plays havoc with the street
the empty chairs look sad and bleak
The steps of subway stop Abbesses
provide for teens a dry recess
St. John's is an unlikely spot
its glass deemed beautiful (or not)
Fleeing from the noisy street
we relish Amorino's treat
Sights and tastes swirl around my head
one place to rest is with the dead
Shrill whistles blow away our prose
they kick us out: "We're gonna close!"
Stumbling on we wander,
the day's not over yet.
A perfect place to ponder,
no need to get upset!
Opera phantom's smirk
and Roule-ta-Bille hero
inspire some to work
with paper and Bordeaux
A trove of inspiration
this is the place to be;
artistes with dedication
will even work for free!
The day is nearly over
I realize with a fright.
Why am I a rover,
and will I ever write?
I am like a snail
crawling, crawling, crawling...
in great despair I wail
"When will I get scrawling?"
With time and lots of stalling
I've realized that for me
scrawling without the crawling
is roots without the tree