Hemingway
was somewhere
past the Pantheon
below his flat
my lemon sorbet
melting
dripping
down my fingers
my head cocked up
at that second story
whiskey window
and the street
was always pale
and quite
unspectacular
besides the lone
metal plaque
etched in Earnest
Sartre and Beauvoir
in the dirt
of Montparnasse
I wondered
how they lived
in death
if it was much
like life
if it was much
of the same
Morrison,
who to visit
required a hike
Even after,
I would continue
the hill from
his grave
until the winding
plateaued and halted
at the grandiose steps
de Montmartre
& so I felt I had been with them
La Generation Perdue
in the cafes hotels bars
under the smoke
submerged in wine
the existentialists
their bouts of nausea
their small seconds of sanity
between pages
Doors opened by chords
a city still rich
in whispered history
and misfortunes
Their Paris
still sets aside
its treasures
for a weaponized pen
to seize 
I wonder about Paris and like that about your mom.