At the Green Bistrot

(In 1870, the teenage poet Arthur Rimbaud ran away from his family home in northern France and wandered around the Belgian border as a vagabond. Here is a sonnet he wrote, translated into English.) For eight long days I'd wrecked my boot soles, trudging those stony roads. I got to Charleroi - the Green Bistrot. They brought me bread, grudging, and meat that was distinctly under-par. Sheer bliss! I stretched my legs out by the fire, and ran my eye across crude wall designs. Things bucked up when the laughing girl-for-hire with ample chest and lively, knowing eyes came in with proper food (there can't be much that that one hasn't done!) Warm buns(!) and butter, roast ham with garlic, on a dainty platter. And then she filled my mug (delightful touch!) with frothing beer. Late sun flared through the door, to bless my supper. Who could ask for more?