Postcard to the Lace Man—The Old Market, Antibes

To tell the truth,

I can’t remember your name.

It’s those Catalán eyes

I can’t let go of.

That and the memory

of an inky tea

sweetened with orange water,

the sticky perfume

of a cigarette

from Persia,

those photos of Tangiers.

I forgot to tell you.

I have a great respect

for wives.

Especially yours.

Au revoir, mon ami.

C’est la vie.

That afternoon

at the Musée Picasso—

a pretty memory and enough

for me.