peace like the back of a bookstore –
knees drawn up, your triangular chin
nuzzling a lucky mug of coffee.
I wish you the ambiance of book cellar –
calor gas cylinder, stylus tucking into
Songs From A Room.
I wish you the sexiness of flexible volumes
fetched from the olive green
bays of the bouquiniste,
shrugging, smoking, standing by the Seine
and pricing foxed pages
with a pencil.