Quotidian Songs

The city and it's fabric have me painted into a corner. A summer cast in iron holds me down. On the pavement cracks a cocktail glass; I rip and tear a paper napkin, say "Merci" to the waiter, excuse myself and try to disappear. Going back to the stuffy atmosphere of my room doesn't feel a very satisfactory option, alternatively the river seems to fill me with light, dappled light which only occurs on long lazy afternoons. Watching a rowboat gently drift away, I take an elegant black bottle from my pocket, uncork it and drink down a few drops. I left Charles back at the cafe with his refillable museum of dead words. Another headless poet grows in the perfumed garden, not attracted by the mellow warmth of the compost heap.