Everything had a place,
neatly *******, zipped in the case.
The handle extended ready for
the station;
a one way train to a working vacation.

She stole the tickets before he’d gone, hid them away to deceive and prolong.

Over there where street names are art
and the coffee barista, 24-hour-bars
sit brimming like every star or
burning ember,
found within iron clad, raw splendour;
is where he wants to sit and reside,
to write about the commuter tide.

Books will live on reclaimed shelves,
stacked high like Tokyo, midnight hotels,
ordered by tears shed
and poetically written lines,
not alphabetically
or in genre kinds.

There, for 900 Euros a month,
with a deposit to be paid up front and all at once,
windows look out onto windows-
tenants do the same; but
this time smiling, mid-browse,
mid-game.

She stole everything he wanted to regain,
so parried her move
and took off in the rain,
to the nearest station
to the first train.
No ticket was held in his left wet hand,
just a Howl for the planned
and one for the descent, to the
north-of-the-river
Three Brothers apartment.

Walk by numbers in
the Parisian palette ,
spreading the paint around
in a long line of lip red scarlet.
Pipette sized width following you
as you tread on stone, you’re new.
Sit with the trains and listen
to walls and notice small change,
loose change on the floors.
Passenger’s stare moves you from
carriage to carriage, regardless of UK, American baggage.
Surface again, the longest breath you’ve ever held
has escaped again into winter’s cold.
Steps climb and feet follow,
Anubis with a rifle watching over-
graffiti crowd control for the younger;
sad face, a smile face, Sacre Coeur white face.
Sink down along the track,
railway men hanging large and fat.
Tea for two with warm milk,
tea for two without the milk,
no tea- up and leave, tip with guilt.

**** kicker Paris scruffs her shoes
amongst the paint, the blues, the museum’s closed.
Again, we have to wait for the universe to align before we get to see her smile.
Wait, keep waiting, Mars is coming, revolving towards us.
Doors unlock and we enter a tide of tourist
and artist and the modernist futurist- lost in this department.
She sits there still, not smiling

Paris, without you no coffee would ever be deemed good.
Without you, I’d be lost and artless and heartless and broke.
Even when you take the covers from under me-
I’m still warm.