At Joan’s
It is almost three
I sit at the marble top
sorting poems, miserable
the little lamp glows feebly
I don’t glow at all
I have another cognac
and stare at two little paintings
of Jean-Paul’s, so great
I must do so much
or did they just happen
the breeze is cool
barely a sound filters up
through my confused eyes
I am lonely for myself
I can’t find a real poem
if it won’t happen to me
what shall I do
