The Métro


The heat from the métro
affects me every time
and once again I'm lost
in stained jeans,
leaning back on
smoked tile walls
sharing a cigarette
between the four of us.
Stéphanne who marched
and got his face on the
front of the Paris Match,
Aurelion a reluctant
Aristo trying hard to
conceal his bourgeois roots.
Then there was Madeleine,
so beautiful that no one
would believe she died
at only 33 years of age;
I saw her a week before,
face as pale as
her lungs were black.
I am only here for business
sanitised in haute couture,
I buy a 'croque monsieur'
from a guy that could,
if I closed my eyes
be you.



Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 652 times
Written on 2015-10-25 at 18:41

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
What a lovely piece. Memories fly around taking you more placed than the métro :)
2015-10-30


Nancy Sikora
A perfect vignette painting of a memory, tinted with nostalgia and a touch of melancholy. I love your images.
2015-10-27


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is sad and lovely, Elle. We've all been through this. You find yourself someplace you have been before, and what was there last time returns so vividly that it overwhelms what is there now. I hope that you enjoyed the sandwich.
2015-10-27


Ivan R
Poetry all the way
2015-10-26