The village has been enveloped by fog for days.
The world is shrinking; all I see is our apartment.
And the misery of prisoners of the pandemic.
We are sinking into abjection, and we can´t run.
Do you remember Paris ten years ago, she says?
Well, vaguely I murmured, then she told me of us
travelling there on a bus that took forever.
She had visited family and friend, visited her
brother grave and enjoyed herself.
I had read poetry at a venue and met with silence.
I had gone to a theatre showing a modern play
falling asleep drunk and farting loudly.
I walked the streets, drank in a bar told an arrogant
waiter to Fuck off; thrown out.
God, I hated Paris it, was not like meeting Hemingway.
I was 80 years too late.
In the morning I was ill, had to go to a hospital
they stuck a tube up my penis so I could pee, and now
I sat in the kitchen agreeing with my wife it had been
a great trip; it had been an accumulation of misery
caused by myself, you see, I couldn’t find
the Paris of my dreams