Finally, after a week of cooing how cool Cannes can be
if one is a sensitive poet/reviewer/observer of life,
we get real with a foul mood, sulk through the fresh fruit,
refuse to choose among twenty frigging different kinds of olives,
mope up the steps to La Place du 18 Juin, decline
to parler with Agnès when she brings the coffee,
bark at Poopsie for stopping to admire a pair of pink shoes,
glower at the clerk who takes his sweet-ass time
ringing up my copy of Le Monde,
and wish I were someplace more exciting
than this scooter-crazed cul-de-sac
of topless Euro-tans and yachts.

I can’t wait to kiss someone goodbye
on the wrong cheek and go back home—
where my smart, dark mood knows the local language
and always keeps his portmonteau packed for the next place
where I will dream I've given him the slip.

Friday, September 10, 2004

Comments: Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?