Paris Mon Amour
I’m going to Paris in the fall, last time I was there
it was a June, I feel into the Seine when I waved
to a girl who walked on its other side. Two days
I hung on a hook behind a door that led down to
a wine cellar, drying out; people were rude to me
because I didn’t speak French and ever since I get
easily offended when I hear Parisians laugh.
Paris in September, is melancholia, I’m a guest at
a white wedding to a couple I have never met; yet
I’m worried I sense a Sagan type tristesse as when
rain fall like gentle sorrow, trickling down a girl’s
soft cheek; blue twilight and the whisper of fallen
leaves. What do I know? Whatever, happens I must
be careful not to fall into the Seine