A chilly morning in Dijon,
I walk briskly past the 
old carousel, quiet now,
a few tables in the square,
here and there, coffee and 
daybreak, bread a few 
steps away

a door opens and 
a bell chimes

the factory in Lille is
no longer, I remember
the match that struck
the last Gitanes

the night of strong
hot smoke, laughter 
behind the fountains

a palmful of
drams of whiskey
the keeper called
baby Jameson

up the street I touch
the owl on the church
where the goers now
kneel harder, pray more 
quietly to atone

cc: CC '22