I promised Alicia, when she was small,
we’d see Paris someday.
Stepping from an Uber onto Rue Clovis
and Descartes—
rubber soles meet cobblestones.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Chasing shadows up a spiral stair—
each footfall makes planks groan.
Does a racing heart, full of anticipation,
prove I’m here?
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Across the threshold—
patched stone walls,
a timber-beamed ceiling—
familiar to old-world eyes, not mine.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Bells call, the faithful and tourist alike.
I draw back red velvet curtains.
A cathedral tower peeks through
a centuries-old skyline.
Café voices suddenly hush.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Lifting latches, throwing windows wide—
we breathe the crisp winter air,
smell strong coffee.
Smaller, brighter
bells join in to lift us.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Hemingway’s Spanish beret strides by,
stirring blue doves into the sky.
No manuscript—
just looking for a clean, well-lit place to write.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Passing scooters hum
to Django’s two-fingered guitar.
Locals exchange nods
and line up for paper-wrapped loaves—
tempting every passerby.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Most astonishing of all—
a fruit-frosted cake arrives,
Alicia celebrates thirty;
she wears a diamond ring—Valentine.
Our delight is real—but no—
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 10:52 AM UTC
I promised Alicia, when she was small,
we’d see Paris someday.
Stepping from an Uber onto Rue Clovis
and Descartes—
rubber soles meet cobblestones.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Chasing shadows up a spiral stair—
each footfall makes planks groan.
Does a racing heart, full of anticipation,
prove I’m here?
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Across the threshold—
patched stone walls,
a timber-beamed ceiling—
familiar to old-world eyes, not mine.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Bells call, the faithful and tourist alike.
I draw back red velvet curtains.
A cathedral tower peeks through
a centuries-old skyline.
Café voices suddenly hush.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Lifting latches, throwing windows wide—
we breathe the crisp winter air,
smell strong coffee.
Smaller, brighter
bells join in to lift us.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Hemingway’s Spanish beret strides by,
stirring blue doves into the sky.
No manuscript—
just looking for a clean, well-lit place to write.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Passing scooters hum
to Django’s two-fingered guitar.
Locals exchange nods
and line up for paper-wrapped loaves—
tempting every passerby.
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
Most astonishing of all—
a fruit-frosted cake arrives,
Alicia celebrates thirty;
she wears a diamond ring—Valentine.
Our delight is real—but no—
Monsieur Descartes has me dreaming.
“There are never any sure signs by means of which being awake can be distinguished from being asleep.”
— René Descartes
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