Time In Paris

Time was something else then. In a city. Far away from here. Far away from distant country railways leading into more country and the blood rivers of the south; its veins. I am from a land of cotton and speech that sounds like nails against a black board.

It bothers me none. As I wander streets now in a shade of winter; New York in spring, perhaps Paris in summer. Paris. I am here and you are there. Oh how far away we are.

It bothers me none. The jazz in the summer time on a hot sidewalk. A sidewalk you can stick to with your sweat. And every so often a breeze ruffles your hair; that is Paris. Wine following good natured hearts over somewhere picturesque. I often picked a walk in the graveyard. How sweet it was. That was time in Paris.

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