by Laura Foley

Film Noir

In Paris with my professor,
and his shy teenage son,
not much younger than I,
whose presence I try
to fence from my awareness.
Our apartment’s an atelier,
our courtyard shaded
with Trees of Heaven,
I look down on
before descending
the new brass elevator,
clanging through
the ancient stairwell’s
Stygian depths,
to sip bitter espresso
and smoke filter-less cigarettes
as if I were born doing it,
all that summer,
pretending I’m someone else.

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