Crawling without Scrawling

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