peace on the boulevard

ting ting ting of the church bell

there on the corner middle of the fork

where one road drives deeper into town

& the other begins its meander out

I get up out of the bed slow & go sit on the steps

smoke a cigarette outside so’s not to wake her up

the street sweeper eyes me as he places carpet

by the drain to channel the water down the gutters

taking cigarette ends leaves papers from the patisserie

this early ghost world of he & me is soft black & white

we are become the same as hobos of gare de nord

sinking into part of the brickwork unseen by others

the pissoirs galoise black berets Picasso Hemingway gone

& I flick my end into the swirling drain disappearing down

nod to the sweeper time for me to go

return to another time & place of working for money

bills to pay no more play writer in exile

I must go & wrest her from sleep

break our dreams no more peace on the boulevard

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