a street in Paris

A Street in Paris


September morning rue Amsterdam, Paris,
on top of the street a small park, with trees
that has falling auburn leaves, Romanians
sleep in the park, they have nowhere else
to go, they look tidy and keep small dogs;
it’s nice to have a dog to stroke in a callous
world. The city is waking up, people haste
to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their
place of work, and there is nothing chic
about Parisian women early in the morning.
Ambling along I came to a sign that read:
gar de Stalin, people who live around there
now, mostly first generation Arabs, have no
idea who Stalin was

There are many Arabs about to day, in
a way, this morning has Algerian feel to it
as the sun warms there is a distinct smell
of African tobacco in the air; I’m going to
a posh wedding, on a barge sailing down
the Seine, it’s a very French affair so there
will not be many semitics around, unless
they are waiters. Lunch time is democratic,
full are hamburger joints and small cafes
selling baguette with cheese, while posh
restaurants are as empty as old churches.
It’s a pity really Paris is not as French as
I had imagined it to be; poor Edith Piaf
has been dead for a long time.