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
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