Proust

I wish I were Marcel Proust:
Paris, the gilded architecture of so many memories,
Intimations of immortality sparkling through the glitz,
The champagne that makes the room amber,
Elaborate silk gowns and ties,
Waxed mustaches and wily suits, laughter.

And then to go home to a room of slanting moon-light,
A cold bed propped by a draft,
The almost palpable faces of adjunct buildings,
Sentinels with yawning eyes who would tirelessly watch
While I re-inscribed the world's inverse reflections

As if onto one of those snow globes,
The kind you turn and shake
And there is a stillness,
Sparkling flakes strewing a field of embedded forms
With their soft, mechanical music.