Le crème
The mouth would speak. The poem disappears.
The heart desires to love. Sweat fades away,
Though. Passion lasts for moments, not for years.
He sits alone, Parisian café
Amour around him where he used to sit
With more than newsprint words. The waiter, brusque
As March wind’s slaps, is a straight-jacket fit.
The situation, tailored for this husk,
Is colored colorless. There used to be
A wrist beside his fingers and the spoon.
He once had had a Guadoloupan sea
Of shores and islands. Now he is immune.
..There once were nights of Caribbean flame.
….He wonders now if such can only maim.