It's Paris
Miriam
says to me

looking out
the window
of the coach

her perfume
tending to
overwhelm

my senses
beside her
her finger

pointing
at the sights
as we pass

the Eiffel
Tower thing
lit up loud

isn't it
wonderful?
she exclaims

just to think
of artists
who once lived

and worked here
Picasso
and Van Gogh

and writers
like Miller
Hemingway

Marcel Proust
she pauses
looks at me

and who else?
what perfume
do you use?

I ask her
just some stuff
of my Mum's

she gave me
she answers
well not quite

gave to me
I kind of
borrowed it

the other day
while Mum was
out shopping

I study
her profile
her snub nose

rosy cheeks
rose bud lips
the slim neck

small tight ****
she has tons
of perfume

she wouldn't
miss any
Miriam

rattles on
is it good?
enticing

I tell her
she smiles wide
looks at me

parts her lips
moves her tongue
over them

Ezra Pound
was here too
I tell her

the poet?
she asks me
that's the guy

wasn't he
a fascist?
I guess so

but he wrote
The Cantos
her lips close

she turns round
Paris’s so
romantic

she utters
I lean close
breath her in

the perfume
inviting me
to drink in.