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 whores
sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home
or the sexy 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 murder 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 sex
will make you blind.