sketches on napkins

i save up enough money

to go to Paris.

a week or two.

i've bought my chapeau,

a black

beret.

i start smoking,

and talking about baguettes

and cheese,

bordeauxs.

i begin to recite poetry

and to make

sketches on napkins

ala Picasso.

i peruse

the map, where to go, what

to see.

the 

West Bank, the Tower,

the Museums.

but in truth,

it doesn't matter

where we are,

i just want to hold your hand.

i want you to be

with me.