Bresson has him on a bridge,
wrapped in a Mac like it's his big idea,
his pipe a feeler for subtleties.
Eyes like fish in a bowl,
he watches his line of thought out over the water,
the play of sun on the Seine
in its absolute freedom.

All day I've been wasting my time,
anything but work!
I write and play games, read the TLS.
Sartre in particular has been keeping me,
the snapshot on the bridge, for instance,
and the coupling of his birth date
to the longest day,
a case of serendipity-
rhyming, as we all do, light with choice.

copyright © the author, 2000