Jim Burns
Spring in Paris
I saw him walking along the Rue Rambuteau,
and he clutched his bottle of cheap wine
as if there wouldn’t be another that day.
Crowds of tourists went by, but he didn’t beg,
he had his wine, enough for the time ahead,
And what he would do when it was gone
was something to be worried about later.
There was sufficient for the moment.
And just then, despite everything I knew,
and with my progress carefully planned,
I wanted to be like him, not measuring hours,
and simply concerned to catch that feeling
when a sip of wine is all that is needed
to satisfy the desire for something more.
Page(s) 7
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