On the day
He was expected to die
His son
Went to Paris
The father and the son
Didn’t seem close at all but still
When what little love you had
Dies – it hurts a bagful
The son had made it happen
The trip to Paris
With a group of art students
Eager to write their names
On the hallowed ground of Montmartre
The son had hoped for life
But found out about the death
Of his father
And his grief was wrong
It was wrong for the streets of Paris
It was wrong for the bright sunny air
It was wrong for the gaiety planned for
It was wrong
Being there
No one could console him
He wouldn’t be consoled
His soul is still in Paris
And always was
