Spare sun in Paris. Nothing goes right
he thinks as his belly lurches hungrily.
Nothing might appease him on an unappeasable day:
even eating implicates a future want.
A woman cries allez-allez in the alley
while a forked man shifts his long baguette
boarding a gray bus
at the stop called grace a dieu.
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Always maudit. Never maudlin.
Poetry, with a dash of prose.
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