Long before my conversion:
I enjoy café au lait at the Rotunde,
Perched on the curb of a congested intersection.
I converse with a French businessman
About the city and the weather,
The ghosts of Hemingway and Fitzgerald
Waiting impatiently for us to shove off already.
Up the boulevard, I mentally
Genuflect at the Closerie des Lilas,
Birthplace of The Sun Also Rises.
Garçon gives me a knowing nod
As he brings me my bottle of Perrier;
He notices my pen and pad,
Weary pilgrim from half a world away,
Searching for ghosts of deities
Left eighty years ago.
Later I learned, great as their work is,
Not to mistake them for gods.
