Paris

i
was in
france at
a cafe
watching a
minimalist
production of
the foreigner
trying to learn to
speak the native tongue
with dialectic
perfection
i turned around all riviera
when i heard
a fellow audience member
accounting for a vip table
order a bourbon
in that lilting
tone only
a lexingtonian
can achieve
that asks if he left
his boots under your murphy bed
at the campbell house
he introduced himself
as I’m Joe This Is My Place
and i realized this
whistle for happy chandler’s
dime jukebox joint
was
built on the
red clay
of
paris,
kentucky