There was nothing remarkable about it
in the grand scheme of the city: the crumbling staircase,
the apartment with oversize, archaic-looking keys.
Naked afternoons with the man from the medieval city,
its winding stone paths, double-walled fortress.
I walked through the rain to the American Bar,
thinking about the album he loved, the story he told
about his father. The way the pillowcase clung
to the smell of his hair, how we always took turns
leaving. A detour through Tuileries, through the grid
of flowering trees, touching the knobbly bronze statue.
It’s like I have a hole in my pocket—I keep
finding love then losing it again. I end most stories
with an apology: I’m sorry this isn’t a very interesting story,
but maybe it’s going somewhere. Ringing bells in a church
older than my country. A boulevardier and a dish
of peanuts. Fresh mint, bartenders in white jackets.