Catacombs by Guy Yasko

I The last time I was in Paris, I slept next to a piano and ate with sopranos. I painted the bridges. (Everyone does.) I sketched in cafés and bars. – May I see it? – Yes, of course. II We walked through Montparnasse and sat on a bench in January sun. “I want to die there.” I meant another place, where she was from. I held her hand. III I ran to answer when the phone rang. Wet footprints from the shower. I told her I’d visit. I said I’d write.

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