Moonlight shimmers across cobbled courts
and Notre-Dame stands stoic in silence;
omniscient and omnipotent, stained-glass eyes
watching the Seine move beneath the twinkle
of stars, the Eiffel Tower and the streets.
Men with roses harangue tourists,
but we are all seventeen and this is no time
to love like strangers at midnight, our bellies
full of pasta, wine and cheese. Our ears
searching for the place where a voice distantly creeps
onto the cobbles. ‘Hit the road Jack, and don’t you come back
no more, no more, no more, no more.’
She’s blonde, leans like Jessica Rabbit against the piano.
Winks at the English; knows we are seventeen
and falling, hopelessly, in love with her French.
The cocktails are all named after sex positions
and our mirth bubbles up and over our tables,
squished in a semi-circle, still listening
as her fingers play the polished top of the piano
like his tickle the ivories effortlessly.
We’re seventeen and this is no time to love
but we all fall in love with the sound of our voices;
homeless on the streets of Pari and free:
a sweet, sweet November filling our lungs,
teaching our adolescence how to breathe.