As romantic as the candlelight in a Paris bistro
   Before it is snuffed out like Marat,
   In a red sheet of claret.
    
   With the closing door,
   Moules scattered across the floor,
   I am reminded that I should tell her I love her more,

   By the waiter.
  
    Remembering why I hate the French,
    I clench
    But sooner
    Rather than later
    He brings me a schooner,
    Of the green stuff and then...
    A pad of paper and a pen.

    I cannot walk home but am driven,
    Where, unlike him, I'm not forgiven.