My friend, Karl, writes he’s sitting outside
with a jacket on at a cafe on the Champs
Elysees. Thinking of himself as Hemingway.
Imagining the words that strolled that street,
that Victory walked through its arches.
Karl speaks a Maine French that goes a long way
wherever he is. Which is everywhere
a city needs a friend to stop one of its citizens
to chat. Karl is well-known at home for chatting
all morning and afternoon, standing in front
