postcard from paris

bonjour,
i'm in paris
right now. i'm
in a cafe on
the boulevard
smoking a cigarette
and drinking
coffee from a
tiny porcelain cup.
there's a harmonica
on the table,
next to a pastry
that is stale.
the waiter just
sneered at me.
i'm reading
a book, while
i'm writing one.
i'm reciting
poetry, my own,
from memory, and
some of it i'm
just making up as
i go along.
my shoes, that
are more like
small boots, are
black and shiny,
so shiny that i
can see the eiffel
tower in their
reflection. i'm
distracted by
the women, by
their legs and
eyes. their pouty
lips too.
the scent of them
walking by. they
want to look at
me, but they don't.
pffft, to hell
with them.
i'm trying hard
to write something
different, something
that for once,
isn't about me,
and not about you.
but, you see
the results of that.