Should you enter my rooms ignore
the rumpled bed.  Laundry beneath 
the desk, pictures askew upon 
the wall bespeak the eagerness
with which I prepared to greet you 
in this place where my dreams reside
above the streets of Paris, where
old men in cafés listen as
gold shoes on lovely women clack
against sidewalks.  Should you enter
my rooms, I will give thee wine and 
bread, tell thee gay stories of my 
fabled youth, sing to thee of love, 
of terrible abandonment, 
and passionate return, silken 
tales spun to catch the sweetness this
old man’s tongue shall forever crave.

Should you enter my rooms beware
my appetite.  I have taken 
many meals here and savored more
in cafés along sycamore
shaded boulevards, delicate
reflections of seed pods swaying
across the surface of my wine.
A peasant, I have breathed the air 
of kings.  Their hungers are mine.  Their
loneliness grows within my soul.

Should you enter my rooms, take the
hand I extend to you; entwine
its fingers with your own; take the
spices I offer, saffron, clove
rosemary.  Sip my wine slowly
as do I.   Too soon your knock on
the door will echo from bare walls 
and you’ll descend my winding stairs
to tree lined boulevards filled with 
urgent lives, vibrant with color,
with scent, with song and argument,
with laughter so brilliant you may
imagine they shall never fade.

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