Me and Erik Satie

Me and Erik Satie are coming apart at the seams, or so it seems. Maybe he’s just pretending to be unhappy. I don’t know—I’ve never been to Paris.

Now all the lovers have gone off to fight.
Love cannot be bought, though I’ve paid the price for your time.

Every morning he puts on a tattered old suit pulled from a closet filled with more of the same, then grabs an umbrella as he heads out the door for a stroll on the Champs-Élysées. He wants to make it to the banks of the Seine before the rains take the day. To hell with rules and conventions—let them drown in the water and lie there at the bottom like pennies in a well.

The sight of a pastel sunset brings a hint of a smile, but senseless talk from old fools with slippery tongues blurs the view. Shades of browns and greys are the only colors I see.