Last Day in Paris

at 9 a.m. the knock came thundering through the neon
flash; it had been there all night. all four hours of it.

we thought the deadline was loose and had new friends
to spend the dark with drink. how quickly to learn

otherwise and snap up. gather bags, pay and go. this was
no time for hangover. it was far too soon, far too early

for such intoxicating language in a sidestreet supermarché
buying bread and cheese and water. i think it's monday, how

many hours til the flight? god, where do we go now, up
the wind of this hill, these marble flights. does the city

glisten in the morning sun, or be it the alcohol
lulls me like the sirens back to sleep, here nestled with

my backpack on the steps of Sacre Coeur. you watched
the vendor of misspelled haiku postcards while I slept

this headache back to a dull thud. no more of the jarring
aftershocks from the morning knock on the door between my eyes.


(updated 10/29/08)