In Paris I lived in a typewriter big as a house,
Bigger than two houses,
I slept between the g’s and the q’s
Hitting a high c every time I slipped.
It was summer when you went away.
I wrote your name in the bars
And slept under the bridges on the Left Bank of the Seine.
Champagne asked for you, wondering why you ever went.
Autumn rolled across a blue goblet sky
Bright as a brandy snifter.
The leaves fell between the typewriter keys:
It was a hard time for a journalist
Pretending to write poetry with leaves.
When winter came, I shut the typewriter into its box
And sent it back to the office.
Hitching a ride on a passing cloud, I flew south
raining letters.