someone somewhere

someone

somewhere

stopped in at 27 rue de Fleurus

late in the afternoon

after a short walk

before a long talk

and a quiet laugh about Germans

or the gay part of the world,

just never the bad

or whatever seemed sad.

he was tired after a morning writing

and needed the fresh Paris air,

then went inside listening to her French

but never reading in that language

which seemed much too hard,

while sitting on an easy chair in her salon.

they both liked to read,

especially stuff by Scott Fitzgerald

and of course their own work,

and talked often about other people,

but never more than once 

did she speak about Joyce.

and if he did,

he wouldn't be invited back.

nothing was simple there.