N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 0 7

NANCY FLYNN

Tong-len Forgotten

How is it I rush

past the young man asleep

on a cemetery bench

behind Église Saint-Jean-Baptiste,

my every thought on finding a café

yet still notice the newspaper folded,

inky shroud over his face,

Converse high-tops with no socks,

silver studs that are a belt below

a smile of skin, his waist

alive with its blue-vein tattoo?