Another new poem. I promise, I will get back to the novel sometime soon:


Miles in Paris
by Michael S. Walker

Miles came back from Paris
A changed man
Because over there
They treated him like a man
Even more than an artist
What the hell did it matter
To the golden bell of the sun
The color of any woman he kissed
If he bent to drink
From a centuries-old fountain
What the hell did it matter
The crowds lionized him
And offstage let him live
And when he came home
His eye would not leave that behind
And there was nothing to do
But stare people down...

copyright 2005 by Michael S. Walker