Back street from our “gite” window in Collioure, South of France. Sept.12 ‘02
Below my window on a wet night, eleven o’clock,
A tired man plodded, all hunched.
In my hotel room, I was smoking a cigarette,
Quenching my thirst with a rosé
Recalling a comfortable day, looking forward to
Deep sleep before another fine day.
The man’s head was down,
A pack on his back, leggings tied on.
He was searching for a corner for the night.
I wondered about the difference
Between his day and mine,
Between my night and his.
Was he wishing his could be more like mine?
Thinking of me wondering what his life was like.