the sly head of Apollinaire

after the exploding shells

targeting the trenches

of the western front,

a shrapnel wound

wrapped by a large bandage 

walked a side street of Paris,

retreating with a handheld bouquet of field poppies,

watching horses making their early rounds,

gaining insight into the educated mind of

modern man.

it was the sly head of Apollinaire,

crafting written lines like a fisherman casting bait

before the hungry eyes of curious fish,

remembering the recent war,

dabbling in the moods of philosophy.

an Italian by birth,

he kissed the French battleground 

with a faint cubist mouth,

licking his wound with a deep introspection.

in his Paris scene, the wooden entrance doors,

opening and closing at all hours,

were painted in different colors,

but he always knew which were the more expensive,

accurately guessing prices with a practiced eye.

what seemed unimportant, he knew otherwise.

and his friends knew where to knock and when to embrace,

and how to count the cost

of remaining silent.

they were artists and poetic lovers and

he loved them all in still life and 

when candle flames went dancing across skin,

creating the world that he saw,

and the one he imagined.

he lived in both.

when he died, a myth was born along

with the man.

the door colors have now faded.

his poems remain eternal.