|
Paris Metro
Written from childhood memories: I lived in Paris from when I was 2 till I was 6.
Paris Metro
In the glaring hospital-white light of the metro,
I stare at stress-fractured businessmen
with polished black briefcases
matching their shoes
probably heading to La Defence or the south;
or a long-faced black teenager,
red in his eyes
vacant black pupils
listening to his walkman:
he's heading to the eastern banlieues.
Or a rambling, bearded man
handing out plastic keyrings
giving some speech about having caught AIDS
having two kids to raise
the words spit and gargle out of his mouth.
People look away, whisper 'non merci,'
'non merci,'
'non merci,'
as he shuffles from one stop to the next.
The doors clunk and hiss open.
Rubber fumes rise from black soot-caked rails.
As the metro thunders on,
it whips up a signature of disturbed air
slapping past my face.
Glistening white-tiled tunnels
showing arty film posters,
curving concave,
lead to steps outside
and warm sunlight.
Car horns knife through drifting currents
of pain au chocolat and cigarette butts.
Buildings sit thick and golden brown
with rows of black dusty windows.
Flags droop from their poles
of embassies with crimson carpets.
I notice the tramp from the metro
wandering the same boulevard
with two Super-U shopping bags.
He seems to be looking
only at the black lumps of chewingum
on the pavement.
__________________
"The greatest in life lies not through never falling, but rising every time we fall." - Nelson Mandela
|
