Clouds - Returned
06/06 2020
In the bustling dining room whose posters cried tears from Stalin's cradle
Tobacco smoke in clouds over the stained oak booths dispersed
by the gentle movement of the servant-girl
Bringing smells of comfort in the way of frying oil and perfumed neck
The laughs from mustached gentlemen in the next booth along with
the kid beating his potato to a starchy pulp
Overpowered the memory as the clouds of stale tobacco returned,
in any case I would prefer it to be French.
In another world I was content and still.
I owned a motorcycle, and thundered down the road
Slavery is wrong in any form and was stopped by brave men
Would I dare ride the motorcycle in a downpour?
These days I don't even dare to think in those terms.
Two shots of gasoline and then I headed home
Big clouds emerged as I opened the door to the empty street
Boots clicked against asphalt
Birds greeted the morning
A motorcycle wizzed past
The clouds up above were something I couldn't get out of my head