When In Paris

When In Paris I think I see you lost under some umbrella and in my imagination I am so lonely here I stop on sidewalks and let my keys slip to the ground with my address engraved I walk to the old and settled in the parks I pretend you are one of them with hands that smell of crosswords and begonia cuttings, arms gently stretched out for the pigeons And then at night in my room I cut holes in the bathroom mirror and ask the ghosts to rattle the table and make the mattress squeak. © Gry W Christensen