I Remember (Je me souviens)

Behind the clock face
is Paris. Beyond the ticking
away of ordinary moments
is a lamp-lit cafe with rain streaking
its windows, poetry spattering its walls.

Angels soaked in gray,
dilly and dally, linger in damp,
seedy corners, grin at gargoyles,
call each other by name: Francois,
Geraldine, Celeste, Guillaume.

Here at home, winter sets in. Beds unmade.
Floors unswept. Hearts undone. Party dresses
languish in closets. French spoken only
in memory when you je t’aime’d me
in clouds of sleep.

The angels extend their cold fingers
across oceans and fields, through snow
and wind to my outstretched, mittened
hands. I order an au lait at Starbucks, listen
to the cacophony of clatter and chatter,

feel the steam of hot milk on my face,
feel the bones of the angels’ fingers
in mine, know that Paris is just beyond
this moment, just beyond this unwashed
window raining tears.