A wall photo of fin de seicle Paris like a black and
white Utrillo, winter trees edging the boulevard
narrowing to a fog of branches, a grey pulls a cab,
a man crosses in front, jacket swirling, a fedora'd
poseur stands in the kerb, but it's the foreground
that fascinates; a top-hatted roué part-hidden by
a woman's pale face, crinoline hanging below
her coat, their smudged reflections on the wet road,
I wonder if she knows he's there, or the driver, or
M'sieur jacket, and if she were to turn to the man
would her perspective be the true one, the best one.
Half way to the counter I drop my cup, the girl has
a broom in her hand before the pieces settle;
to her I'm the man who's dropped a cup, to me
she's the provider of food, to the owner I'm
the one that bids him gule gule when leaving
and as I do the cab remains stationary,
it is still cold. I try to imagine
the colour of the woman's eyes.