Another short block from Patrick’s Scattered Notes collection. I don’t know if the poem belonged with the paragraph, but it doesn’t hurt to combine them here.
Perhaps because it was my first visit to Europe, when I was young and in love, the simplest detail gave the thrill of adventure – unsliced bread, fresh every morning, outdoor cafes, traffic cops with white gauntlets. Then to top it off, history on every corner. The first month we stayed in an apartment in Paris belonging to girls we had met in Greenwich Village. They were, in August, on holiday like most Parisians who could afford to leave, on the coast somewhere in the south of France.
If I was a poet
or I could sing
I would start at the beginning
and tell you the whole dang thing.
But I ain't a poet
and I can't sing.
Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.