How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof,
thinking of home. -William Faulkner
Tomorrow I set out
on a train to Paris.
At last the road leads me,
alone, to a city of lights,
a mere myth to my mind now:
something romantique.
I haven’t so much as heard
from a raindrop
for two months,
and here I am: it’s late,
it’s raining in the faraway
here-and-now, and I guess
I’ll just see you around then.