Sidewalk Cafe in Marseille

So what good is this book to me,
It's in French.
Better a woman whose body at least
would be universal
or a glass of wine
which, like a silent movie,
is language-less

Maybe if I just leave
the book on the table.
People will think I'm an intellectual
on break,
that I'm freshening up
my deep instincts with a little red
that I slosh around and sip
like I saw Jean Paul Belmondo do it.

It'll be dark soon
and the book's details
will drop down with the sun,
leaving only the shape
of what I want people to think of me.
Waves slapping to shore
will distract them anyway.
With the right kind of silence,
I could convince the world
that's me doing it.

A woman never does arrive for me
but the waiter assures my current high
that the glass will never completely empty.
When this place closes up,
he'll hand me a bill
I can neither see nor translate.
I'll just pay with what I have
and wait for any change that might come.
Then I'll go back to my hotel with my book,
read frustratingly foreign sentences
until I fall into a sleep in my own language.

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