pardon, garcon, garcon

she calls me

from Paris, i hear her

ring

tapping

her cup of tea,

her bracelet

tinkling against porcelain.

there's soft chatter in

the background,

i hear her say, garcon,

garcon,

sil vous plait. more tea

and another croissant,

i'm on the left

Banke, she whispers

in her newly

developed accent.

i wish you were here.

it's so lovely

and romantic, 

you'd love it, mon ami.

so what are you doing"

she says,

thanking the waiter

with a flurry of mercies.

tell me about you, enough

about me.

oh me,

i'm at the paint

store i tell her, buying

a gallon of paint

and some spackle.