For the sake of argument,
let
us agree that the chance encounter
was
at a quaint café on a narrow street
where
I sipped coffee and you drank wine.
Despite
this side-by-side jitterbug and waltz,
we
decided that Proust was entirely too heavy
to
carry around in a rucksack or the brain.
For
the sake of argument, we strolled the park
with
a bottle of wine and a baguette,
staring
at the lake and catching imaginary fish,
though
you pulled in a black rubber boot,
claiming
that you must paint it in your loft.
Found
art is the best, you said.
There,
with the blessing of Neruda,
I
admired your free-flowing fountain,
the
landscape of your valleys and mountains,
your
flat stomach and rolling breasts,
the
slope of your thighs and shoulders.
But
let us dismiss this rhetorical argument,
for
I see a story in your eyes.
Let
us begin with chapter one, page one,
a
story so long that it will be carried for decades
without
burden or the lost time of Swann.
You
are my found art, a prose poem
that
ends with our sleeping in each other’s arms,
our
hair gray, our dreams of coffee
and
wine and baguettes in the park.
Now
to begin: Once upon a time.
~William Hammett
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