He spoke French

Which I didn’t know
Until I turned the cassette,
With its melted edges,
Over in my hands
And saw his writing:
Vivaldi has Quartre Saisons.

And by then, of course,
It was too late.

He listened to music

I’d never heard
Maestros with difficult names
From far away lands;
He made me believe
I would travel the world:
Live a life of love
And danger.

Because how can you have one
Without the other?

How he orchestrated my future

Stroking early chords of dissidence
With his polemics on politics
And paramours.

He was my Icarus,
Singed and falling,
Unknowing
How close he came.

I am close,
Myself.

And wondering —
Would he have liked
The woman he predicted?
The one speaking French,
Playing chess; pouring too much
Sugar in my coffee. Underlining
Passages in books I’m sure he read.
Sitting alone in cafés, letting strangers
Light my cigarettes,
One, after another.

Who can know?

But I’ve survived,
Succeeded even,
Where he failed.

I’ve acquired the accoutrements of living.
I’ve flitted among the filaments of love.

Chasing the sun, yes.
But keeping a safe distance.