thought i’d write
a poem of Paris
nothing came to
mind never mind
i’ve never made
the 14th july parade
too many
surly people
get up too early
sickly president
macarons not my
thing buzzing jets
get me ear drums
wet Notre Dame’s
a damn mess
and yet…

there’s a book called
The Paris Poems
with a Sab baguette
on the cover
but the words
inside aren’t mine
never mind
she writes of 
weighty things
whilst i couldn’t
string a ring of 
artless pigeon
feather verse
around Miss 
Eiffel’s slender
neck if i tried
i don’t mind or
curse it’s useless
plying too hard
hence this
placarded
poem of 
Paris lard
and yet…

to my knowledge
no-one died
except maybe
the pigeon