Jean sits and smokes
outside a Parisian cafe
a glass of white wine
to one side. Emmett's
painting again. His old
studio on the Left Bank.
Still drinks too much.
That model he used
to have died from cancer.
Some other now. Young
and beautiful and I dare
say he'll try and bed her
before long. I sing for
my supper. Some cafe
in the evenings, the usual
fare, French love songs
sad or not. Jean sips
her wine, inhales the smoke,
the sky is blue, the weather hot.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
Jean sits and smokes
outside a Parisian cafe
a glass of white wine
to one side. Emmett's
painting again. His old
studio on the Left Bank.
Still drinks too much.
That model he used
to have died from cancer.
Some other now. Young
and beautiful and I dare
say he'll try and bed her
before long. I sing for
my supper. Some cafe
in the evenings, the usual
fare, French love songs
sad or not. Jean sips
her wine, inhales the smoke,
the sky is blue, the weather hot.
