Sometimes I stare
At the enamelled absinthe poster
We bought from a thrift store in Montmartre
An overpriced attempt
To become more cultured
I look at the lady
In her green dress
And her green hat
Pouring green liquor
Into Emíle Cohl’s cup
And I remember
The night before we bought it
We sat up all night
In the cemetery where Dumas was buried
(I had to tell you who he was)
And we drank from a bottle
Of pale green absinthe
And convinced ourselves
We were hallucinating
(They stopped putting wormwood in years ago)
Desperate to feel
To mean
Something more
Than just bones
More than just an enamelled sign
And a return ticket home.
©Stuart Buck
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