The Swan, and Someone Replaceable
(after Charles Baudelaire)
It’s not the same. I noticed it today,
while dodging Rond-Point carriages.
I’m not the sort who mindlessly disparages
whatever’s new, but Haussman’s swept away
the Paris that I loved. Thus thought the swan
who’d wandered somehow from the Tuileries
and limped, bewildered, frightened, ill-at-ease,
his web feet scraping as he struggled on,
he knew not where, uncertain why his wings
were rasping in dry dust, instead of water.
Nearby, a black girl on a cast-iron bench
(advanced TB: I’ve come to know these things)
sat huddled, shy, not knowing any French,
quite lost. And Africa has lost a daughter.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017
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