They were cheap but they were real, the old bistros. You could have a meal, drink the devil’s own red wine, and contemplate the sawdust on the floor, or fate, as the full-fed beast kicked the empty pail. The conspiracy of the second rate continued to reverberate. Everyone wanted to get his licks. Everyone said it was a steal. So the girl and I stayed out late. We walked along the shore and I campaigned some more. And the city built with words not bricks burned like a paper plate. Copyright © 2014 by David Lehman. Used with permission of the author. |
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