Across the French plains
The tired wind curls up before it rains.
In a tattered diary I write
One more poem tonight,
Having no interest in what’s happening in the cafe.
I’m happy. I wrote seventeen poems today.
The actors rehearse.
In my mind they’re doing a whole play of my verse.
But they’re not. That’s Charles, who doesn’t care
Who wrote the play. He acts
As if the whole world were free of facts.
Actors are free. No one tells them what to do.
Well, at least for Charles, this is true.
When he comes near
He smells of beer.