Babe Ruth smokes a Raleigh in the doorway, as i give birth to a broken mirror if home is where the heart is, i live on the state line or on my sleeve he knows that, and as he finishes his cigarette i ask him if he ever thinks about cancer "i think of it like i think about 1949, so far away"
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.