Not Really Here

I’m sitting at a
Sidewalk café
A glass of claret
Before me
Resting on a white table cloth
Its edges lifting in the breeze
Off the Seine.

The late afternoon sun
Filters through
High clouds
As I watch pretty girls
Walk by
Their laughter ringing
From ancient shop walls.

A siren screams
And, returned to my senses
I am back in the small office
That encases me
Like a mausoleum.
The October wind kicks
Dust into the air
At the grassless patch
By the bus stop
Beyond my window.

I am not really here
I keep telling myself.
I am in Paris.
I am
I am
Simply not here.

I think of calling your number.
Let’s get out of here
I’d say.
Let’s go to Paris.
Let’s go anywhere
But let’s leave here.

I’ll never call
Because you’d never go.
When the sun rises on Paris
It’ll not shine on me.
Someone else will drink the wine
Watch the pretty girls
Smile in the Parisian light.

I place your number back in my wallet
And force my attention
Back upon
The business at hand.