Un Poeme de Paris

In Paris, it's not difficult
to get things right, in fact, all
you need to do is put on your brown fedora
and head for the streets. No one notices you
depositing graffiti on the doorway of the Sorbonne.
You smell of spice and exhaust, bread
and sandalwood. Your pronunciation is
perfect, but you aren't saying anything
in a language you can't speak - though it sounds terrific.
A sweet life makes your heels ache while walking
all the way from Saint Germain to Montmarte.
It's like being in Paris only you're being
in Paris. And there's the coffee and something
sweet hanging from your neck like a medallion
of a saint or a butterfly. I'm going to walk with you along
the Seine past all the kids with their French
beers where it's still light at midnight. We'll wave at
the radiant tourists on their bright boats while
the cobblestones beneath our New York shoes
make us feel like we're walking on the spine of Paris.
We might not ever go back.