A blast of winter had conquered Paris
In the spring, so we allowed time to drain
In the laundromat watching twisted clothes
In lollipop machines, grim street scrubbers
Armed with vicious lime brooms organizing
Cigarettes and papers in mushy piles.
At night, cuba libres with ax-faced girls
Puffing on small cigars next to a pair
Of overdressed backpackers from the States,
Engaged in the art of resurrection.
At breakfast we caught them at La Coupole,
Preaching indifference with bent elbows,
Communing with ghosts in fervent belief
In consecrated coffee and croissants.