markbousfield

PARISIAN...

I said I love you,

You said fuck off.

A steamy Parisian morning,
the air was cold around my legs
as I drew my trousers up from the floor.

I heard a scream from the street below,
down on the blue-ing pavement...

...this belt never buckles...

...an overturned piano lays splashed onto the stone.

I turned back to you full of expectancy,
and,
as I expected you rolled to face away from me.

The crisp carpet under my feet gives me a start,
these old socks have a hole for the whole of my big toe,
I follow on with my brown leather shoes
sitting on the edge of the bed staring emptily out into the dawn.

I arise step by step onto the streets still moist from last night's heat,
the reassuring plumes of condensation tease on my lips,
rubbing a hand deep into each pocket I discover in the lining of my jacket the damp centime
I stole from the waiter's tip tray last night,

I glance upto her window and see

well,

l'ennui.