Today,
like a luminary,
I gleam, glide, then stumble
up the stairs to Monmartre
after a long day of drinking Chablis
in cafes fully peppered with Parisians
who laugh at us if we ask for salt.
Women with swan necks and short hair,
carrying wine and baguettes in brown paper bags.
Old men out for a merry day with their mistresses,
practicing the royal's ways.
They, in chic hotels, break bread
and drink wine while a winsome ear is tongued.
Shackled and chained to my husband,
who’s wearing sneakers and a baseball cap,
I glare at him while he reads a map which
will take us somewhere out of Monmartre
where a roaming tourist artist had said
I had a short neck after drawing my portrait.
And my thick husband paid for it.
The portrait of me with a long neck.
At the end of the day, I think
“Oh, sack me into the Seine
or maybe I’ll swim over to the West Bank
and stuff myself with brie so all the men can ignore me.”
Why am I writing this all down?
This and more are stored.
Ass pinching in Italy, poor Paia in Spain,
pigs feet in Morocco, Mexican children selling Chicklets.
I suppose I need these notes because I want to write a poem about Paris
but all I can come up with is
Hide me in a Chanel suit
I don't know how this happened! Now, it's on Facebook. Not my wish.ErrorLaurie Palmer likes this.



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