La Tristesse

sorrow follows me like a shadow I cannot shake
like a lingering cough no matter how much
I bake in the sun, I see the topless
bathers in St. Tropez and they
give me no joy knowing
they would cast me
aside in a heart
beat before
the cock
crows
thrice
we’re cast
out of paradise
my Eve; there is
the Cocteau Chapel
it’s warmer here than
on the Thames in many
ways and Rome is the first
African city south of London
my friend Luciano used to say
I remember from my youth and
Eze and Cap Ferrat where once I had
a spaghetata with Pesto alla Genovese
long before anyone discovered it in the USA
hurray hurray for the foodies who have taken
cooking food from an art form to a religion God
help us find meaning in our lives; I would rather
be an Amerind deep in the Amazon shooting poison
darts from a blow gun for my next meal than walking
down the aisles of a grocery store chain, who took the wild
out of life, mass production gone global, thank you captains
of industry; you have granted us a heritage of uniformity that
we find irresistable like comfort food, life has become mashed
potatoes and meat loaf whether from soup kitchens feeding
the lines of the homeless or Chez Maxim’s catering to
the rich and famous who extoll to us on how to live,
God help us that a celebrity would have any insight
like Berliot once said God help a nation that
needs a hero, I’m going back inside my cacoon
now to wait for spring so I bid you all adieu.