Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Thursday, March 17, 2011

The Wolf



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.

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