Tales of a Paris Flaneur

Early days as a flaneur; I recall the couple On the Metro When I was still innocent Of its labyrinthine complexities; Slim pretty white girl, Clad head to toe In new blue denim, Wistfully smiling While her muscular black beau Stared straight through me With fathomless, fulgorous orbs; And one of them spoke (Almost in a whisper): "Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?" Then it dawned on me... The slender young Parisienne With the distant desirous eyes Was no less male than I. Being screamed at in Pigalle, And then howled at again By some kind of wild-eyed Drifter who told me to go To the Bois de Boulogne to seek What he clearly saw as my destiny; Getting soused in Les Halles With Sara Who'd just seen Dillon as Rusty James, And was walking around in a daze; Sara again with Jade At the Caveau de la Huchette.   Cash squandered On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush, Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre, Paperback books By Symbolist poets, Second hand volumes By Trakl and Deleve, And a leather jacket from The flea market At the Porte de Clignancourt.   Metro taken to Montparnasse, Where I slowly sipped A demi blonde In one of those brasseries (Perhaps) Immortalised by Brassai; Bewhiskered old man In a naval officer's cap, His table bestrewn With empty wine bottles And cigarette butts, Repeatedly screeched the name "Phillippe!" until a bartender With patent leather hair, Filled his wineglass to the brim, With a mock-obsequious: "Voila, mon Captaine!"   I cut into the Rue du Bac, Traversed the Pont Royal, Briefly beheld Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, With its gothic tower, Constructed only latterly, In order that The 6th Century church Might complement The style of the remainder Of the 1er Arrondissement, Before steering for the Place du Chatelet, And onwards...Les Halles!