3rd layer nostalgia

In the hour when the sun
has yet to be fully seen
sleep still hanging all around me
the whir of the fan, the morning numbness
of my body.
The room fills with gray light.
Eyes open, eyes close, where did my dream go?
Somewhere in between warm sleep and
this autumn morning I lost my dream
of Paris.

Of black clothes, cafe avec creme, le Louvre.
Ianesco, wiry intellects contemplating my
adequate enough American figure.

You were there drinking wine and coffee -
staining your teeth in perfect European style.
You were there, Mr. American. Tall,
unassuming, relaxed.

Eyes open, eyes close, open again to the gray
room by myself, in middle America
worrying about starting the cycle of
coffee, work, dinner, bed.