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