The Poems of Paris Just Keep Coming

Last August I had 23 days in France.  Three nights and four days in Paris.  My favorite pastime in Paris besides eating, walking, eating, walking, drinking, eating, walking and sleeping was time in the Jardin du Luxembourg (Lux Garden to me).  What a spot to just flop into and hang.  Seems everyone in the nearby "quarters" goes there to meet, have lunch, play with the kids, get googly-eyed over national treasures...you name it.  I was one of those who daily (when I was in the Latin Quarter at least) loved being in that place. 

So, I'm looking over my notes last night from my trip to France and up pops a poem I wrote while waiting for some quiche or a biere of "grape" juice in Lux Garden.  Of course I was not surprised to see it was about a woman.  What was I really doing in France anyway? Certainly not looking for my French mother.   Well, the truth is I was enamored by the French women.  Not my goal, but certainly a by-product of showing up on the scene. 

French women, in Paris at least, seem to tend to their eyes, not their boobs (American woman seem to think we're just looking at their boobs.  Maybe a little, but you know, "the eyes are the portals to the soul, oui, oui, and all that).  They often dressed in slinky-tight dresses that revealed their sexuality (for me) but probably more so their "sensuality" was their goal.  French women seem to have their weight under control, yet there are some women over there that should not be dressed in those iron-on dresses and jeans.  Oh, yes, handbags and usually matching fancy shoes.  Not quite gaudy as in bird plumage, but attractive--a moving side dressing to distract the watchful eye of the most casual observer. 

French men on the other hand seemed to be displaying their women as if they were in charge of them.  The woman acted though their men were out of touch with everything but themselves.  Still, the women seemed to be just fine letting their man feel like he was displaying his "doll".  And yet, the men dressed in T-Shirts, jeans, sandals and on top, baseball caps.  What contrast.  Women taking great pains to be just so, men taking great pains to look like their slobbish drivers.  Oh, well, I probably have this all wrong, but no matter.  It worked on me; I was totally drawn to French women and the cultural differences between American and French relationship displays.  So, here we go...

Woman in the Black Hat

She is like me.
Moves with a searching gait
Her dressed for Paris
Outfit takes her presence
From one concession stand
To the next in Jardin du Luxembourg.

I want to follow her hat,
Black as night under-drapped
With blond hair to mid-back,
An supporting props for her
Impressively tight black dress.
She is looking for hydration.
She too has walked a long way.

I turn to the concession stand
For my glass of wine
When I turn back to watch her;
She is gone.
Forever.
____________________________

I'll keep you posted if she shows up again.

Me and Tess