The Trouble with Dorothy Parker

Canadian wind
come down the shoreline,
small
black jacket that smells like last years cologne hanging on the collar
the cuffs,
fits soft against my skin
as I'm sitting down to coffee
in a cafe
with Dorothy Parker in my hands and a song in my head;

I smell you,
your ghost still there on me
in the threads,
and the sun goes behind a cloud

and I taste you.

Again...

And then the sun came out.