Let soles touch floors
on hills, in bars, between cafe terrace doors;
beside scarred walls that bleed paint
of the young, naive, those who cannot wait;
only to be scrubbed down by the thick bristled
brush of the Gendarme in white.
I’m 22 in the 18th,
with a one bed roomed house
high above the wake.
Next door is a wafer thin, paper thin,
not-that-thick-let’s-the-sound-in
wall; the portal through
to another war, of words exchanged
by a relationship estranged by
lies, cheats, drug filled leaps, missed-another-call
in Tuesday’s heat.
Here we take tea without milk,
waste time on the Pigalle, free of guilt.
We let warm metro, subway air
melt our faces,
as we stagger back a few several paces
not to be knocked down by taxis, brimmed with cases of
those visiting and leaving, staying around until the end of the races.
When will you calm down Paris?
When will your children lose their
keys to their cars and cannot drive
quite as far?
When will the tourists leave, so to uncover
the real autumn leafed workers, stretched
inside suits and dresses, only to be late
to that members meeting starting at 8?
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