Ghost of my face
on my face, specters
of my self on these
streets, turning corners
& corners & corners
& corners, striding
all wrong directions
away from the Parc
away from the Seine
stiff as a stone saint
looming in a stone
chapel of a stone
faith, refusing to bend
with the centuries.
Still poorly using
a paper map, poorly
creased, poorly
folded. Now, at last,
sitting. Staring left
at one leg of an ill-
fated pig, hoof
attached, clasped
by its slender ankle
in a steel ring,
immobilized,
to be sliced by
the deliberate
imperturbable waiter.
Not nearly far
enough away
from the action,
I watch
from a banquette
in this vintage
establishment
known far & wide,
quite over the sea,
where even as it is
here, time
is the butcher.
