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December Paris  

Winter Paris pavement cafés vacant chairs and poor sparrows look for 
baguette crumbs. Artists had gone to their loft conversions, in bed with 
their models and plates of goose liver pate, waiting for a better time. 
I came across a posh bistro people inside wore silk suits, doors locked;
 invitation only. A famous philosopher came out, said something deep 
about peace- in broken English- then asked where the camera was. 
When he saw I wasn’t a journalist he said: Merde, and walked back in. 
At the bookshop Shakespeare, academic tourists had assembled they 
looked through books of famous writers, thought of saying that two of 
my poetry collections were there, but they looked so educated, wore 
capes of superiority and poetry workshop shoes I lost my nerve. Rain,
found a bistro at a side street, had coffee with an Armagnac, thought 
of the days when Ernest Hemingway scribbled away here, other writers 
too, when Paris was not so haughtily conscious of her artistic status.

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