The Man at the Seine
Passing a garden, I saw a group of tourists sitting at a table.
I took a seat nearby and ordered tea.
Hearing them jabber away, I thought for a moment of the man at the Seine.
I saw him stamping up and down the room, tearing his hair and bewailing in that beastlike way of his.
I saw his cap on the rack.
I wished to put his clothes on me.
The cap I particularly liked,
to keep the rain away, you see.
I pulled the covers back, so I could watch him naked as he dreamt.
By now, the boat had left, he was well on his way.
He wanted to hear English spoken.
He had only heard English sung.
© 2003 S Sawaged
I took a seat nearby and ordered tea.
Hearing them jabber away, I thought for a moment of the man at the Seine.
I saw him stamping up and down the room, tearing his hair and bewailing in that beastlike way of his.
I saw his cap on the rack.
I wished to put his clothes on me.
The cap I particularly liked,
to keep the rain away, you see.
I pulled the covers back, so I could watch him naked as he dreamt.
By now, the boat had left, he was well on his way.
He wanted to hear English spoken.
He had only heard English sung.
© 2003 S Sawaged
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