It’s 6am in Paris.
Beyond your window,
the sky will have begun to aquarelle.
The ivory horizon blends toward
Wedgewood above La Tour Eiffel.
Taxis take tourists and businessmen
to DeGaulle by Roissy.
Policemen make their rounds in twos.
They stroll the gardens of Les Tuileries.
The birds there sing, for now, for you.
I imagine you masculine, replete,
heat tumbled amidst white, percale sheets.
It’s 7am in Paris.
You open your world, Le Monde,
while you eat your petit déjeuner.
You butter your croissants
and drop sugar cubes
into your café-au-lait.
In your French apartment,
with its rosy olive upholstery,
and wallpaper reminiscent of a Monet,
you accept your life, fait accompli.
The financial page holds promise, for you, for today.
You stretch once you’ve finished reading it.
That’s how I envision it.
It’s 8am in Paris.
You must be on your way to work.
You shoot along the city’s stream, debonair.
Your shoes shine. Your hair gleams.
You love the Parisian pomp and fanfare.
Drivers honk. Shopkeepers sweep.
The pigeons stir as you pass.
Spectators at sidewalk cafés, open-air,
sipping espresso, writers, poets, expats,
they all look at you, like I would if I were there.
They coo—just like I would do.
But, the world spins me away from you.
—by Angel Leigh McCoy, 6/7/01—
