In darkened rooms,
on Avenue Foche,
along a small corridor of
'chambres des bonnes',
I smell the guano, of bats.
and hear them rustling at night.
They are in the crevices of these stone walls,
the old grand homes have become caves.
A radio plays Prokofiev,
I am near tears, at the thought,
of a large black wolf.
There's a convocation at a local university,
to celebrate the anniversary, of the Revolution,
Francois Mitterrand is the honored guest.
He speaks in French and is pronounced,
Doctor of Laws.
I walk for soup, to my one-franc spot,
where the waitresses are blonde,
and speak Russian.
And on the way home I notice how
all Paris is blonde now,
all the stones are creme-colored.
Centuries of soot are bleached away.
Down the glowering streets,
past sentries saluting,
screams the motorcade of the President.
I think to shout, "Vive la France!",
But in an instant, they roar past.
