09.15.06, Paris , Montparnasse

The black balcony railing was only a foot from the window.

This of course didn’t stop him from sitting dangerously near the ledge,

the Paris cars fuming dangerously far below,

the glint of sun on those black glasses.

He was, in that moment, invincible. Or he thought so anyway.

The girl of the moment smiled a gummy smile, muttered something in French.

She was the entertainment before lunch, he said.

You could tell they’d just met. Likely fucked or would.

Would is my guess.

Of course, I only saw this through someone else’s lens, yet still…

I could taste the wine on his breathe – a kiss tasting of white wine and summer and France .

I couldn’t tell if I found such behavior attractive or not.

I think I preferred him behind his typewriter, tea at his side.

This or smoking and strumming that guitar with the wiry strings about the neck.

Still, however you cut it, he was all charisma and charm – of course, talent and genius –

but that goes without…

Insouciant, pouting. Youth usually wasted on the young – but not him.

All I envied as I watched was this:

That chance she had after they fucked or did what they did –

Just to lie beside and count each of those wild, mild brown curls –

Of course, it would take a lifetime, but isn’t that the point?

I’d like to start anyway… give it a shot…

Of course, I know she didn’t. Intuition tells me so.

Like him, I am a poet. And like him, I would not blow it.

This is where she missed. This is where I would have hit.