Washed in a desert’s night rain
Prison lights impersonate themselves
Mirrored on an incarcerated sidewalk
Repainting gray fences and huddled pigeons
Into oily and rippled metaphors
This is my melancholy Paris
Where Parisian lights glisten in glorious puddles
Tracing salient scenes
Of metropolitan splendor and color
Harvested only by a master’s myopic brush
Though I’ve never occasioned a meditative pause
Before that painter’s canvas
I did by chance unveil it
On a torn and battered page
Of a modest borrowed book
Long lost to turmoil and time
The book has never again been found
But each time the desert rains come
They kindly paint my prison walk
And my Paris has arrived once more
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