the old bistros. You could have a meal,
drink the devil’s own red wine, and contemplate
the sawdust on the floor, or fate,
as the full-fed beast kicked the empty pail.
continued to reverberate.
Everyone wanted to get his licks.
Everyone said it was a steal.
We walked along the shore
and I campaigned some more.
And the city built with words not bricks
burned like a paper plate.