Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
The Santa Cruz Issue
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Debra Spencer

Letters of Transit

“Perhaps we shall like it in Casablanca.” --Victor Laszlo

We all stayed up late in Paris
when everyone was in love,

slept in Metro stations
like bohemians. Time

sprang away from our youth
like light from diamonds--

or like bubbles that rose and broke
against the morning sky.

In those days things seemed
so black and white--

the piano, the tuxedos,
the elegant gowns. Glasses clinked,

hearts rose and sank. Then
we fled to Casablanca.

Rick came after losing
the girl he loved. Then

he found her. Then he lost her again.
Then he left. In the souk

the others finger lace they know
they’ll never buy. But here two of us

have found a clean white house
with geraniums on the balcony

and a view of the sea.
Paris goes on without us

while here palm trees sway
and the desert unfolds its dunes.