Robert sits in the Cafe Flore.
He sips a cup of green tea.
He traces words in a note-book.
A stranger flips the table and shouts: “When you are ready to decide who you are let me know!”
His Mother throws poems at me and weeps.
“Such lovely poems,” she says, “but all about me…all about me.”
I wear the black trench coat of mourning.
“Ya know,” I say, “I was taught to be more dispassionate.”
Robert rights the table and smiles: “So was I. We’re Jewish, ya know.”
“Yes.” I sigh. “More tea?”
Robert nods and passes me the cup.
“I had a dream about you,” says Robert.
I see all of San Francisco from the summit of Mount Haleakalā.
It is dawn and a dense fog settles as a crown around my head.
There is a scent of roses.
A jagged crack slaps my face.
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