When I lean

            against the quay along the Seine

When I blur

            my eyes into the sun

            into the flowing

            picking out "Worried

            Man Blues"

            on my banjo


             all of Paris comes to me.  Then

            If I could slip this pride

            off like a new sweater,

            they would pay me to play.

When I close

            my eyes in the Hotel Jarry at night then

            balloon            heads bob

            speaking to me a concert of perfect French.  Then

Who is speaking?


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