The French man looks up toward the sky, Cigarette puffs mocking the minute traces Of clouds above. Each puff transient like his youth Long since sunken, Immersed in sand and snow. He plays his accordion, A forlorn and saggy tune, One that he had learned in his ancient youth. A tune with no words, No meaning. A love song, A battle hymn? As the old hands wove the song together Only three people noticed. A woman who was walking alone Suddenly began to cry For her lover who had abandoned Her with child. A Polish grandfather just across the street Cradles his young grandson in his lap, Telling him stories about his Experience on the battlefield, Much to the boy’s enchantment. Granddaughter leaning against his side dreaming. And the old accordion man, Dejected and forlorn continued to sing his song While the rest of Paris was asleep.
copyright Kate Dempsey 2010
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