How am I supposed to inspire the world
from an ageing office chair
or leave my mark for generations to ponder
while staring past the debris on my desk.

I should be having love affairs in Paris,
blowing Gauloises smoke rings
into the heady Parisian air
while drinking coffee
at a small roadside café,
reading Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus;
toying with whatever philosophy holds
the flavour of the day.

At night I could fan out my hair
on the hardwood floor
and lay beneath the paint chipped corniced ceiling
while draped in musty velvet curtains;
my legs and arms
wrapped around your Chablis scented intellect,
and you would read to me while leaning on the wrought-iron balconies
and we would make love in the Paris air under warm rains
that would cleanse this dust from my lungs

I could be dangling my thoughts
in Venetian canals,
running barefoot over bridges
while hiding my face behind the city’s masks;
or live for a while
in an old stone cottage
on the edge of a cliff
where you could teach me
how to see like an artist.
At night we would paint our pleasures
on the flagstone floor
etching our days
onto stretched canvas
We could cycle along
the canals of Amsterdam;
the Autumn breezes
chilling our bare hands.
And afterwards
stop to warm our inspiration
in the hazy light of a coffee shop
and open ourselves
to the infinite.

But I find myself here
in this cold office
tapping my fingers
to the mundane beat of my days
and I don’t know who
or where you are.

Sheila Knowles

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bohemia-s-haze/