Sometimes I stare

At the enamelled absinthe poster

We bought from a thrift store in Montmartre

An overpriced attempt

To become more cultured

I look at the lady

In her green dress

And her green hat

Pouring green liquor

Into Emíle Cohl’s cup

And I remember

The night before we bought it

We sat up all night

In the cemetery where Dumas was buried

(I had to tell you who he was)

And we drank from a bottle

Of pale green absinthe

And convinced ourselves

We were hallucinating

(They stopped putting wormwood in years ago)

Desperate to feel

To mean

Something more

Than just bones

More than just an enamelled sign

And a return ticket home.