Paris, Summer 1984 Poem by Paul Isaac

Fresh from the stunning Musee Rodin
we rode the Metro to Pere Lachaise.
I'd read of it in Rolling Stone,
seen Annie's intriguing shots.
Past Proust, Chopin, Piaf and Stein we strolled,
past the Communards Wall,
to visit the grave of the weary, wiry rebel hero of my youth,
Jim Morrison.
Ugly graffiti, empty bottles,
photos, poems, love letters,
dead flowers and roaches
adorned the forlorn and filthy grave.
Saddened and sorrowful
we strolled on to Oscar Wilde,
and must have whiskey oh you know why.

Brisbane, Australia, September 2023