In response to prompt 25, “Paris Postcard”
It was April then, unseasonably warm,
Twenty-four years ago.
I met a boy at the Café Phares.
He was too unfinished to be called a man.
We sat on the terrace,
Sipping coffee and smoking American cigarettes.
He lolled in a chair,
Desperate to be mistaken
For Alain Delon in his heyday.
A question startled him, and it was only
After his companion translated that