Being a writer takes up so much time
and there is no one there to tell you
it’s right just the wrong wrong wrong
of the elders, flowers in their hair;
Baudelaire with a bouquet tucked under his left breast pocket
in the cimetière du Montparnasse.
All I have is a baguette to fill the hours
and a hand-painted bedsheet
spurning the joys of capitalism.
There is nothing beautiful now that paper is
obsolete
but the trees can flourish in Russia, Herzegovina, Maldova
