I recently read A Moveable Feast written by Ernest Hemingway about his early years in Paris. He shares memories of himself and other writers living in or visiting Paris during the years he lived in Europe. The book was inspiration for my poem, Like Hemingway.
I love a cafe.
My favorite has hushed conversations
and almost inaudible music.
The best bakes bread, greets me by name,
and asks, “The usual?”
Like Ernest, I dine alone,
but don’t feel lonely.
I try to write.