A beret on the hatstand
A battered Sartre on the table
A nude girl
Soft there and strong everywhere else.
And wisdom here,
Tragedy,
Heart,
Perfection.
Seen and felt by no-one but us
It is fragile.
In this bohemian room
In this bohemian quarter
Of a New York that feels French
A bohemian window.
She looks out of the window
Nude but for the beret
I sit on the bed and scratch my beard.
This is not my life.
