chestnuts and parma violets



oh, how romantic might i be? true, i do love paris, the chestnut vendors along the bois, those girls selling - i'll buy you violets for your furs and do i love that late fall, i'm crazy even 'bout paris in the winnnner, sinatra in my ear, darlin', this has got to be one of the faves. the grey days, the dank days, those dark four-a-clocks and that smoky scent  of chestnuts blistering. hey, come on now, this is portland, there's girls on the corners, sans violets though, but yes, we have chestnuts this winter, alright this november, for now not in paris, but in a roasting pan full of holes right here on my very stove.


smoke gets in your eyes in my kitchen, fire alarm turned off for effect, rustling my pan full of striped browns, crackling, charring, eventually peeling my treasure, it's those buff meats i want, after all. chaw them playing rummy, late, by and by, along a jigger of booze, water aside. seems nights are darker, mornings slower, what i know even of dawn. as for sinatra's violets, darkly scented and velvety blue, they crop up in parma and just now show on the streets of paris. if ever they make it to portland i'll just know whom to send them to.