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?