The busiest street in Paris

Cars passing by, their rush hour, not mine

The ashes all seem to blow away

No matter the weather

They just blow away

A walk across the Seine

And Harville’s to the north

An ill-needed charm interrupting a man’s long-awaited confession

And all the graffiti honoring Serge, our neighbor

Sleeping away in our small space

To Gainsbourg I declare!

And they all know the way

On ticket too many under my coaster

Keep them coming and I’ll keep counting

Why do you write what you write?

To be read? Or to just say what you must?

A Lord’s Prayer in her sleep

And for me PJ Harvey and Modest Mouse

My hair flies this way and that

Comte and service for two

Marco Polo with milk and two sugars please

Just like Taupin wrote

A trinket resisted around my tiny wrist

As well a golden gown, its extraordinary train

Pink and gold patisserie at the lake

“A strange place for a picnic,” he says

And Mozart’s Magic Flute

Waiters pulling flags from their pockets

In jubilation or sadness depending on the match’s score

Afterwards, a cynical caretaker, Gauloise in steady stream

Shuffle what sound; what will come piping through

A song from last summer on a trip to the sea

The words then were as true as they are today

A thousand miles might as well be six