PIERRE & PARIS.

A WOMAN AND HER LOST LOVER.

That cafe in Paris where
Pierre used to take you is

Still there and maybe unless
Mistaken the same white

Chair where’d sit leaning back
Discoursing on Descartes until

The small hours smoking those
French cigarettes and sipping

White wine giving the passing
Girls the benefit of his stare

Imagining the colour of their
Underwear but he’s no longer

There his chair is occupied by
Others now his philosophical

Debates just echoes on the air
Or trapped memories in your

Middle class middle-aged brain
And you lying in bed with dull

Donald know you will never see
Pierre again never hear his words

On Descartes just the emptiness
Left by his death and grief’s sharp pain.

Reviews

[just rose.]

The rhyme in this is effortless and the absent punctuation suggests the flowing mischief of a ghost.