It is almost three br I sit at the marble top br sorting poems, miserable br the little lamp glows feebly br I don't glow at all br br I have another cognac br and stare at two little paintings br of Jean-Paul's, so great br I must do so much br or did they just happen br br the breeze is cool br barely a sound filters up br through my confused eyes br I am lonely for myself br I can't find a real poem br br if it won't happen to me br what shall I dobr br Frank O'Harabr br