Why I still think in a few French words
when the man who made me like that has long since
passed from my life?
Vacance, just the same, so I can dream, and survive
another brutalizing week
but then I will float along water
propelled only by my own muscles
Lie for a moment in a little winter sun
Re-enter the lives of my characters and
end their stories at last? They have been
waiting for me for years, to be considered worthy
of another's eyes
Hike in cold hills nearby and come home to
home cooked food
Exercise for hours and meet up with strangers
and stay up until really late and maybe see snow
explore life inside and out
After one more hellish week