Three hours in Paris

airport

Charles de Gaulle
is still a mess.

Where the hell is
Terminal 2F?
I’ve been travelling for
18 hours and I’m quite sure
they’ve hidden it to mess with
the travellers from Japan.

I follow a young mother
and her toddler,
a black haired girl
in grey leggings
and pink runners
who explores every corner
of the airport.
Run. Fall down. Repeat.
Guards and agents
laugh out loud,
pick her up
and send her off
in the right direction.

By five o’clock
we’ve found F30,
gate at the end
of the universe.
The man at the cafe
with the red and white
Illy sign yells, “Non!
Come back at five thirty.”

It’s cold.
I pull out a sweater.
A Girl Guide, always prepared.

The sun begins to rise
all pinks and purples.
A Monet morning.

There’s a Sky Priority Lounge
but everyone uses it.
Liberty, equality, fraternity.

When I return
for my cafe au lait
the woman who joins the line
after me is in a terrible
hurry. She fidgets. Stands
beside me, then ahead.
The couple in front of us
stares but I decide
not to care. The sun
has exploded golden
in the east and fills
the glass terminal
with goodness.

Forgiveness at five forty a.m.

I tip the barista,
drink my coffee standing up
and try not to think too much
about how close I am
to Paris,
City of my heart.
The Relais Bosquet
in the 7th
and the yellow roses
in the foyer.
Roast chicken.
There’s a longer list
but these are the things
I long for this morning.

I message the folks
in Geography of Now,
challenge them
to leave more
out of their poems.

More space
for the reader
to figure things out.

Like Paris this morning.
More vivid
because of its absence.

Tough for me
I have always been
more-ish.

On the plane to Geneva
Genève
I dunk a croissant
into my cup of hot chocolate.
 

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