one night, and just like the others.
first, a car drive in the evening rain to the library.
i find a book in the reject section of the library, the now-for-sale section, the penguin book of french verse and it is blue, and it smells like the book-filled clapboard stands along the seine in paris that are green and are unlocked in the morning by the old men smoking cigarettes that own them, and i open it and it says --
et c'est vous et c'est moi.
and it is.
and it is you and i.
and i am a romantic, and i talk to books, and i believe in signs and so --
i drop fifty cents in the slot and slip it in my purse.
the drive home from the library is also in the rain, and it is the exact same drive only backwards.
when i'm home, i put on lipstick because this is the way one reads french poetry in bed.
and i am good because i have a man that loves me and whom i love --
but also because i have books.