The din of the rain, the shear of cars as they cut past on wet streets | like my early years in France.
Renaults and Citroens painted soft shades of gray | sky-blue windows, tinted | and wipers that
from the top of windshields | like hands wiping tears from their eyes.
Why did I feel so melancholy then? I was no more than four ::I still feel that weariness as I drive down rain-swept streets today | I watch passersby in felt fedoras, huddled underneath umbrellas.
But, wait! the nostalgic twinge of a jazz number whispers on the radio | the cymbals—cars whizzing by | the rat-tat-tat of the drums—the rain on the roof | it brings me back there, to Cavignac.
Pablo Cuzco is an American writer of poetry and short stories. He spent his early years in France and Germany with his family. In his teens, he traveled across America, guitar in hand, writing songs and jotting memories along the way. Now living in the Southwest with his wife, he has time to reflect and share those stories. His work currently appears at Underfoot Poetry and Pablo Cuzco …in My Mind’s Eye