Max and Me

that Sunday

on a corner

in la Bastille

Max

roller-skating leader

of the pack

leading us

leading me

across the bridge

across the Seine

but

pas sufi

for Max and me

it is not enough

so we continue

to Sacre-Coeur

and there is

no film needed

no flash

required

to capture

our journey

this camera

is internal

every second

a portrait

imprinted

as we move

through light

through dark

sans wheels

into the night

the day

the week

our dance

spilling

onto the balcony

spinning atop the roof

twirling

high above the boulevard

together

we dance

nearly naked

in body

so naked

in spirit

we continue

over

then under

le Pont-Neuf

across

le Pont-des Arts

up, up, up

among

the very lights

of la Tour Eiffel

we continue

to continue

the dance

our dance

the beat

our beat

and this picture

of Max and me

framed internally

can be carried

from here

to there

to any

of my

imprinted

anywheres.

Renoir at the Brasserie

Tightly blue-jeaned

and black

leather-jacketed

she sits

outside

the Café Brasserie

the teenage girl

with

the Renoir face

long-lashed

eyes

on the boulevard

one

peaches and cream ear

tuned

to a cell phone

of pure

Paris Hilton Pink

she sits

her perfect

portrait mouth

all a-pucker

punctuating

each outgoing

utterance

with a long

drag

and a longer

stream

of charcoal smoke

then

with a pause

impregnated

by centuries

of inbred

nonchalance

she ignores

the ashtray

at her elbow

and flicks

another ash

on the cindery

cigarette collage

at her feet

the 21st century

Renoir dream

alive and smoking

at the Café Brasserie.

Phenomenon

the air
in Times Square
smelled fresh
how could that be?
the air
in Times Square
closed its eyes
to the Korean deli
and fantasized
virgin flowers
sans
plastic buckets
sans cellophane
the air
in Times Square
shut its ears
to boom-boxes blasting
and imagined
the foreign song
of birds
with pristine wings
the air
in Times Square
rearranged
its reality
and dreamed
of wafting gently up
past
the blinking
neon babble
to the exotic light
of stars
unseen
the air
in Times Square
smelled fresh
having been
flirted with
and enticed
bewitched
and beguiled
the air
in Times Square
smelled fresh
responding
guilelessly
to all hints
dropped
by spring.