THE GIRL FROM GALLIENI

 

The town looks run-down

this rainy weekday morning;

a single street climbing

to nowhere special,

an old boulangerie,

some sleepy Asian shops

but the church door

extends an invitation

so I step inside to breathe

the incensed silence

of wood and alcoves

 

then without a word

a vagrant poet appears

from behind the church,

his limbs stiff from months 

of Paris and park benches,

crosses the square to where

a brunette in a saucy dress

is already laying out

the tarnished cutlery for lunch

plus a napkin on every table.

He orders coffee, dips

into a rucksack for Aragon

but can't take his eyes

from those plump thighs

as she stretches over tables,

a suburban orchid

riding youth

and caring not a damn

for this situation

or the dark interior

of steam, news reports

and poverty at the bar.

 

Published in The French Literary Review. Issue 27. April 2017