Tarmac blood in
a ribbon vein,
running on top
of a French landscape,
sunshine and no rain;
a scar I like to call the D338.
Sunflower crowds that
move together,
follow the Sun as if
loose feathers in the wind.


Doorway women squint
into the sky,
their aprons tied tight
to their waist side pockets,
deep with recipes scribbled on paper
and the keys to their acre
behind the family's tin pan roof.


Settle your back back into your seat,
strap in to keep in line your broken spine,
keep concrete eyes on the foundation skyline;
for this is the road that sits upon an alter, the holy shrine of France.

Hey!
talking-loudly-girl,
shut up.

You’re
not in New
York now.

Get
your feet off
that chair,

can’t
you see it’s
busy today?

That
child, there, wants
a seat

and
you’re denying him
one, *****.

If you take away the ticker-tape barriers
and the scattered signs for luggage,
vending machines and airport
senior leadership teams,
all you’ll have is a hall of
travel.


Some seats remain
for the elderly to reside in,
they’re checking holiday books
and pamphlet guides.


Floor space has curdled
into a mess of white-deodorant-
stained teens who want a
good night’s sleep like
the marines across the way.


They, the marines, joke about
the weather, the women, the
watered down beverages from broken
vending machines and ****-cafe-
expensive-coffee down the strip.


De Gaulle is but a roof now:
drains and curving stretches of
eyebrow iron,
not the general France
once relied upon.

A red border box
asked for a lover.

The paper was folded,
creased down its spine.

A lover moved in
downstairs from me, below mine.

The apartment stood tall,
bricks to-attention, bricks in line.

A noise of unpacked
boxes filled the vents.

The removal men left,
now she’s alone to be content.

A knock at the
door, thud for attention.

The lock unlocked and
she entered, introduction over.

A late return that
night, date finished,
dive under cover.

Wake to see her,
next to you in the light.