At dawn, the "alarm clock" sounds,
the familiar morning sound
of the street cleaners' brushes
that wake me from a dream
before the pink sun rises
over the skyline of Paris
and the bells of St. Sulpice
chime six times.
The intoxicating smell of coffee
wakes my spirits,
of an addict of the caffeine drug
to cover the red wine taste
from the night
after I had kissed Genevieve goodbye.
The baker opens his boulangerie.
It is a dull Saturday morning,
as so many,
to start a day in Paris,
with a croissant
and the rustling sound of the newspaper
and a fag.
Published on April 21, 2023
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