Paris Street, Rainy Day

City of Light
the famous corner,
park across the street,
stone fountain gushing
absurdly in the rain.
A 20ish waif in
pale short coat,
blonde hair wound
onto her back,
bare legs reaching up
from black shoes,
walking slowly, purposely,
on the wet sidewalk
as vans and cars
come and go
at the changing lights.

She puts both hands
under her coat
at the sides,
lifting them suddenly,
flashing any men
who may care to see
what little she wears
underneath in
her secret life.
It’s just her way.

A mature woman
fully-clothed with
a blue umbrella
clicks her tongue and
looks the other way
as she jaywalks
behind the girl.
A student garbed
in black plastic
with a duffel bag
is stopped as she
turns to greet him,
hands dropping her coat
so he only catches
a glimpse of what
the morning might offer
so unexpectedly.

No sale or no time,
he walks on
as a tarped motorcyclist
slows down to take
a closer look while
the umbrellas pass by:
blue, red, black, and yellow.
An old man with
a purple shopping bag
crosses the street
with his diminutive wife.

Everyone, it seems,
has somewhere else
to go as the girl
checks her phone again,
both hands in front of her.
No calls yet.
The traffic moves on
and still no birds
have come to play
at this forgotten fountain.

(“A poet is the most unpoetical of anything– he is continually informing and filling some other body.” -John Keats)

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