If this was the early 1800's, we would've died from polio,
if this were 1943, I'd probably'd be dead at war.
instead of adrift on sea...
my possessions ruffled through,
left without my boots, on this France
river bed. Skin drenched. From a war, that had meaning,
at leastof course, to those that'd been liberated.
To be liberated, for those who think with that rationale,
oh, to the hours! to the cafe underwrought
with expatriates! a toast to their bereft!
Possibly, a glass of wine and my poorly rolled smokes.
In as much as a bad accent, and of nothing else.
In the present, it is warm, sunny.
fifty two degrees.
Not such a thought in the sky.
An escape hatch, for you.
Each day, each passing moment left.
Your breath hangs thoughts.
You dispel air.
