Paris, le Corbusier, and Angles

My mother, riding small-town shotgun,
said goodbye. Father taking Erik and my sister
to the Mulhouse train depot, and myself parting
at a roadside lori-rest and petrol-stand to have
the first espresso demitasse out of town,
my kid sister having left early in that same-day
for the americas and college life and more of the same,
but the rest of my generation had it in for two days
of Paris gypsy jazz in Reba's part of the bean pot.

The two were attached to the train she'd take 2 days on the before-hand,
and I was thumbing my luck at the mercy of france's
homeward bound vacation motorways, ending with new friends, stories
and a half-hour auto-tour of the city. arriving to an empty corner architect's
atelier, and huddled reading by the radiator till the hopper nighthawks
returned laughing.

1 comment:

  1. Django is alright, holding a candle perhaps to Oskar of the red-and-white lacquered Bronski-fame's friend Scholle; who harbored windward hopes of student drollin in Hamburg but who now, keeping the Onion Cellar goers keen to keel in tear jerked confession, plays a little jazz guitar on the weeknights and eats blood sausage the rest of the time.

    Meanwhile I dreamt of an apartment in Leipzig. The fridge was full of cheese, my neighbor did not sell drugs and the building across from the tram stop displayed a giant poster of what it used to look like before god-knows-what happened to it.