In Chicago I learned

That somebody who hangs out

In underground Paris

Is called a “cataphile.”

There are halls

Tunnels

And catacombs

Down there

Filled with art,

Human skulls

And bones.

People who had birthdays,

Friends

Lovers

And flesh

Once.

The graduate student 

Who keeps an eye on the museum

Is cute and nice

Like everybody else

In the Midwest.

On my plane back to New York

The captain gave his usual speech

And then with an almost broken voice

He added:

“I looooove my job.”

I loved him for a minute

And then went back to talking to myself.