the french city is groaning and heaving off winter
around us. sitting in the february sunshine and drinking black
coffee and talking about happiness. neither one of us really believes
in it. its been advertised to us as a destination we will arrive
at if we’d just performed all the rituals, with the right intention
in the right order.
things that didn’t fix the problem
the degree, the relationship, the friends, the urban life
the rural life, the travel, the tattoo, the letting go of the knowing
of the unknowable void. the sun
penetrates me to my core on your back porch, the bitter
black coffee is strong and hot. here’s a place of it,
happiness- a few moments of quiet conversation
montreal casting off her robe of snow, defiant
and raw and messy.
curious, i probe inwardly
”what do you want?” i ask my
fickle heart. there’s no answer but the
drip drip drip of ice melting on
the spiral staircase.