Remembrance: 141

Paris-
my God!
Of all the times
I could be wrong,
why is this not then?

This city surprises me little;
I knew going in
rude was the official language.
It smells better than New York,
but is that a compliment?

This city is your dream
and you sleepwalk the ever-circling streets.
And small parks
are your Edens built into the
hillsides.
Gossamer wings invisibly
lift you up the many stairs
and drift you down
the sloping sidewalks
littered with cafes.
Oblivious to you reverie,
or in spite of it,
my ugly Americanness
mocks your joy, but you don’t care.

Champs Ellyses
and the Seine make you
smile your blissful smile;
I almost don’t recognize it.
And your laughter at my
“little man, big hang-up” jokes
remind me that I love you.

The Louvre
on the second day
makes me forget all of my ire
and all of our fights
because I
so easily
see what inspires
all this beauty here
when I see you.
Divorce is as far away
as my crazy family,
and I am not disaffected
with you in the Louvre.

But I am too dark
inside to let that
temporary perfection
spoil my discomfort.
Trouble rambles on
like a Parisian argument,
and I turn away
before I can remember
that I love you.

Flying home, you sit beside me,
lulled by great dreams fulfilled
and great engines’ muffled roar.
We pass over Ireland,
where I wanted to be
but had no choice.
I don’t wake you as I cry
over Ireland
and that I had no choice
about how I love you now.

Of all the times
I could be wrong,
why is this not then?