021409

The clouds of Montmarte
inhale the buzzing streets
and turn to sorbet
with the dusking light.

Hiding in the shadows
a twinkle of the city
I catch eyes in the distance
coy with a wink.

And youth with a baseball mit
a crack of leather on leather
over French beer; a picnic
and, "Bon journo!"

There is no romance
in looming steel frams
unless Gustav himself
was hopeless with love.

So be my platonic Valentine.
Together over cafe au creme
we will share our hear's desires
of the distant ones we want.