I want to move to Paris.

Rent a shabby apartment,
mattress on the floor,
five floors up,
main road buzzing.

I'll fall in love,
with a failing artist,
my neighbour,
on the train.

Curate at the gallery,
work in a bar,
write a book,
drive a taxi.

Dawn will break,
I'll have croissants,
in bed,
in corner cafes.

It's a stereotype,
a dream,

an escape.