le gout de France
succulent on my taste buds
like a french emory board
never enough
always too much
it files away at my thoughts
each day
as I long for the scent of the bakery
the sound of the ovens
the heat of life as it wanders by
slowly
as it passes each day
the same
insight to the minds of the habitué
their lives, so small,
lingering for compassion
insignificant to the huckster
only out for money
as their lives move on slowly
he watches from the outside,
his only true companion the slow ticking of the clock
the rhythm of the cash register
a lullaby
intoxicating his dreams
the scent of the euro wafting his nasal hair
as he weeps silently,
into his life
pain au chocolaté