PERFECTION

 

 

PERFECTION

We spent a season 

in Paris,

in the spring

of ’22. 

 

At Les Deux Magots, 

nous avons posé 

avec l'élite française — 

(we posed with French elite). 

 

We spoke the language, 

badly,
and smoked cigarettes 

from a silver case. 

 

Picasso nodded. 

We nodded back — 

old friends,
no time to chat. 

 

We left a note
for Hemingway
at Hôtel Jacob.
And, from a distance, 

watched the clerk’s delivery. 

 

Then laughed,
from a distance. 

Ernest was drunk. 

The page was blank. 

 

Coco Chanel drank 

coffee 

with us —
sitting
a few yards away.

 

We were playing games. 

We were nobodies.

And it was perfect.