A Dream of Paris

Ted Morrissey

I can only dream of Paris
in the first half of the vanished century.
Of Pound, poetry, Picasso, paint, and Papa’s terse prose;
of dark, rain-filled streets and the inky Seine;
of cocksure strolling while the streetlamps cast
tall shadows on the resounding cobblestones.

I can only muse about transatlantic crossings,
heated correspondence, and the lusty cabarets
and coffeehouses, where thoughts floated thicker than smoke;
and about the idol tower—that lightning rod of artistic bolts—
rising black in the luminous mist, an unearthly silhouette.

The Lost Generation?—
if they only knew.

Here I sit, midcontinent, on a porch of weathered planks,
watching a wheatfield roll ocean-like
to a red-stained oblivion. My ink dries fast.
Yet my coffee still steams
in the Midwestern morning heat.