Poetry
Jetlag
After the first sleep
of the longest day
in Paris,
I wake with
the taste of Camembert
still in my mouth.
It is 9 o’clock.
Banks that should be open
at that hour
are gated shut.
I wobble to the Monoprix,
purchase packaged croissants
and milk –
breakfast items.
The sky darkens,
impending doom,
I think,
but it’s only, surprisingly, night.
I return to bed.
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