But then there is bad weather on that day;
Champs-Elysees is claimed by horns and rain.
The sun returns and Scott and I discuss
how characters will often write themselves.
We wait for Zelda but she never shows.
Upon our walk, discuss all that’s profane
but then the rain begins to fall again.
And with it colors flame out gold and brown;
muffled, intermittent talk; the mustiness
of leaves that scatter where we take our walk.
I see Scott’s face appear among the stars;
the waiter holding high our tray of drinks.
We share the sundown with our friendship formed.
In quiet, drunken whispers all must end
as towards midnight everything’s a fog
before the dawn and sudden rush of morn
remembered conversations mid the feast.
(From a Hemingway quote: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”)