my sleepless thoughts found comfort in the knowledge that
a generation of grounded airmen had lay, just so, in northern france,
with hope that some arm of resistance might find them,
and hopelessness that in might be the vichi french or germans.
So with the few remaining winter pigeons trying to sing,
I broke camp, taking the wood out of my back as the lumberjack had taught me,
and shivered in the dark toward when i hoped that i might find cafes,
finding them, but learning it was only four,
walking the streets of Reims and trying appartment doors
until one was not locked, and huddling under the
almost-warmer tile stairwell, until the day broke.
and a pan-au-chocolat has never tasted so warm,
nor has a second tasted so new,
or a third. . .
but the day was spent trying to hitchhike in the driver-school
district of town. right, left and stalling like a tease or video-game.