Losing Paris

Losing Paris The village has been enveloped by fog for days. The world is shrinking; all I see is our apartment. And the misery of prisoners of the pandemic. We are sinking into abjection, and we can´t run. Do you remember Paris ten years ago, she says? Well, vaguely I murmured, then she told me of us travelling there on a bus that took forever. She had visited family and friend, visited her brother grave and enjoyed herself. I had read poetry at a venue and met with silence. I had gone to a theatre showing a modern play falling asleep drunk and farting loudly. I walked the streets, drank in a bar told an arrogant waiter to off; thrown out. God, I hated Paris it, was not like meeting Hemingway. I was 80 years too late. In the morning I was ill, had to go to a hospital they stuck a tube up my so I could pee, and now I sat in the kitchen agreeing with my wife it had been a great trip; it had been an accumulation of misery caused by myself, you see, I couldn’t find the Paris of my dreams