Saturday, December 14, 2013

A poem about Paris.

from w

Paris:  let the music move you

His feet  dance on the pedalboard.
He doesn’t see me though he possibly breathes in
the smell of baguettes and pungent cheese
tucked into the pocket of my apron 
as well  as floor wax. His nose twitches,
he looks vaguely in my direction
but I am hidden, on my knees
 in a choir stall of the Madeleine.
 The man’s hair flops as his fingers move
up and down two keyboards.
Then he pauses, draws marks on paper,
not words just dots.

This is not my mother’s kind of music
where the accordion music  is jolly, 
Shadows striped, or circled bright light.
The music shrieks, pitched high
at the Red Mill, familiar to me
though my mother frowns when she sees me
sitting beside the silent dwarf from Toulouse.
He once made a sketch of her, bold lines, a cruel red .
When he asks me to pose  I decline,
winning my mother’s approval.


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