La belle de jour
whose pace is un peu de trop
I pick from the city hubbub
the click of your Prada heels
and feel the frisson prickle my scalp
the breeze flick a lock of my hair
over my eyes and lick
the pages of my Figaro
La belle de l’avenue
whose approach is the fall
of an unexpected evening
I hear the whisper of your nylons
as you slip into the seat I saved
close
not too close
but enough for stray electrons
to jump the gap
or for a little shift in time
La belle des Boulevards
whose almond fingernail
traces a map of the Seine
on the sleeve of my blouson
and at whose murmured commande
a silent garçon
sidles à la table
bearing deux verres de Vermouth…
… how you gently pushed
the door of my life ajar
and shadowed in
slid your arm
around
my lonely waist
and stayed
Silver trophy winner
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