W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM AND COCKTAILS
Time to advice curious readers looking over my shoulder
eyeing every line I read, take in, discard, or ponder,
to begin, one can’t read Maugham
without a cocktail near at hand,
preferably a Boulevardier to help the imagination travel along the Seine
hearing the foolish banter of lovers in nearby cafes
open all night for solitary souls lost in waiting,
sit down, watch how precisely each word is said
move between Chicago, London, Paris, and Monaco
poems left in the grasp of short bobbed girls
walking by philosophers lost in meditation, jazz men dressed in blues
passing the night hip to the cadence of hearts,
and in a corner by a dark alley
shadows wait under dim street lamps
smoking cigarettes, listening to raindrops
bouncing off balconies, falling deeper into daydreams.
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