Tucking Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
into the bedside cabinet
of the cheap

Paris hotel
having cleaned
the greasy sink
and bidet

you walked out
on the street
breathing in
the Parisian air

smelling the perfume
of the restaurants
on the side walks
seeing the sights

taking photographs
as memoirs
drinking the wines
and beers

and that fish
with eyes still there
putting you off
you tried to get out

of the cheap cafe
but paid for the meal
you couldn’t eat
the fish eye

gazing up at you
dead eye
battered fish
and the Left Bank

and night
and you taking in
the sights and lights
and those ******

sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home

or the **** films
you never
went to see
in those cinemas

you just walked by
or the Eiffel Tower day
right to the top
the view splendid

the sight historical
or those rides
on the Metro
riding the wrong carriages

looking out
for the train inspector
pretending to be Aussies
giving it the yak

and later
in your hotel room
taking out
Dostoyevsky

and entering
the Russian world
of ****** and deceit  
and being followed

you imagined
by the detective
looking out
onto the Parisian street

from the open window
of your room
gazing at street corners
and shadows  

or remembering
that French girl
in the cafe
who served you

with bright eyes
black and white dress
and white apron
the fine long legs

and wiggling behind
recalling the old priest
who once said
too much ***
will make you blind.