TODAY

Reading a few pages of Hemingway,

him and a thinly veiled, drunk Fitzgerald

in the Gallic and Iberian landscapes
which you deserved...

I see them too clearly,

memories that should be;

moving to Styron and giving up

after five pages or six -

upset that a drunk lived to be 81

when you...
Fitzgerald, at least, was dead at 44;

then Sienkiewicz, but

his aristocratic parasite whining

how philosophy doesn't allow

him to believe in the religion

of his childhood without doubts,

while reminiscensing about life
among the high society

of Paris, while now staying in Rome...

You were denied them,
the great capitals of Europe.
By whom? Me.

Back at the Hemingway scenario-

In the backround, old Hercule Poirot

episode runs on the laptop screen,

and even it disturbs,

now with real memories

of days slipped through my fingers

like you did.

04.05.-05.05.2020