Tales of a Paris Flaneur

Early days as a flaneur;

I recall the couple 

On the Metro

When I was still innocent 

Of its labyrinthine complexities;

Slim pretty white girl,

Clad head to toe 

In new blue denim, 

Wistfully smiling

While her muscular black beau 

Stared straight through me 

With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;

And one of them spoke 

(Almost in a whisper):

"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"

Then it dawned on me...

The slender young Parisienne 

With the distant desirous eyes

Was no less male than I.

Being screamed at in Pigalle, 

And then howled at again 

By some kind of wild-eyed 

Drifter who told me to go 

To the Bois de Boulogne to seek 

What he clearly saw as my destiny;

Getting soused in Les Halles

With Sara

Who'd just seen Dillon as

Rusty James,

And was walking around in a daze;

Sara again with Jade

At the Caveau de la Huchette.

Cash squandered 

On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush, 

Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,

Paperback books 

By Symbolist poets,

Second hand volumes 

By Trakl and Deleve,

And a leather jacket from 

The flea market

At the Porte de Clignancourt.

Metro taken to Montparnasse, 

Where I slowly sipped

A demi blonde

In one of those brasseries

(Perhaps)

Immortalised by Brassai;

Bewhiskered old man

In a naval officer's cap,

His table bestrewn

With empty wine bottles

And cigarette butts,

Repeatedly screeched the name

"Phillippe!" until a bartender

With patent leather hair,

Filled his wineglass to the brim,

With a mock-obsequious:

"Voila, mon Captaine!"

I cut into the Rue du Bac,

Traversed the Pont Royal,

Briefly beheld

Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,

With its gothic tower,

Constructed only latterly,

In order that

The 6th Century church

Might complement

The style of the remainder

Of the 1er Arrondissement,

Before steering for the

Place du Chatelet,

And onwards...Les Halles!