Goodbye to Paris
I’m through with Paris love.
It’s time for something mediocre
with someone who is well adjusted
whose greatest trauma was divorce.
We’ll court according to the rules
we’ll both be confident and calm
our fights will be constructive
and the sex will be seven minutes long.
We won’t see each other often
we’ll be too busy with our work
but we want our space to individuate.
We’ve both been through it all:
the helpless love, infatuation,
the decadent obsession.
Don’t get me wrong, we’ll have fun,
we’ll dance and dine and drink
provided that it’s on the weekend.
Our jobs are not for the spontaneous.
We’ll make plans to travel
we’ll chart the costs and scrimp
and see each other now and then
but there isn’t much to miss.
In all honesty, what kind of life
is lived in every day?
What kind of miner sifts
through every lake?
We’ll finally walk the Champs-Élysées
and sleep above a local café
one of us chose– I don’t know who–
and after completing each day’s list
we’ll take solitary evening trips
to watch the Seine turn from red to blue
and wonder:
Will we ever have Paris?