It is the middle of the night—

pain meds have worn off,

I can fantasize the Green Fairy of Absinthe on a sugar cube,

but it’s not, just the usual pharmacy for back pain.

My stomach is rebelling

at the first bites of real food in days,

protesting earlier choices of French fries and a salad.


Today Olivia De Havilland turned one hundred years old.

Somewhere in Paris she is blowing out a candle.

I saw her with Errol Flynn in Robin Hood on the British channel;

a classic they called it.

She made eight movies with him.


What makes a classic these days?

I can’t imagine that as a milestone.

I am less than half her age

already struggling to get through the night—

and this pain.

Has life become so different in one hundred years?

Paris is steamy in the summer, almost ungodly—

yet, so is this desert, that I’m sure hasn’t changed.


One can compare the elegance of the Eiffel Tower to a saguaro—

we too have our cafes and poets.

I suppose we don’t share the romance that Paris holds,

however, the independence of the Wild West can rival any Bohemian—


we’re not so different after all, are we?

2016 copyright Katie Pifer http://www.witchpetals.wordpress.com

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