Café de Flore, and reading Kerouac for the first time ever
and lingering over coffee and the heat is building because it's late morning
and it’s August -- and because we're young and reading Kerouac, it's time to leave like everyone else.
Flogging the Fiat down to Juan-les-Pins, and we do it non-stop except for
coffee and gasoline in stations where you're invited to Mettez un Tigre dans
votre Moteur as though it would help. Cars and dust and white cups at
metal tables.
Arid August hills and distant ruins,
winding roads descend
in complicated turns
Driving too fast for the car,
we skitter,
revving a bit too high
and suddenly
in the V of the hills
a blue-white glimpse of sea
and the road screamed YES
as we came down.
And all those mornings. My sandals and my woven mat; coffee
in a bathing suit and all those Paris girls down for the summer.
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