We bloggers are like bouquinistes
with our shops along the Seine
mine is at Pont Marie
I open my green box
the smell of weathered prose
yellowed black and white portraits
wafts all the way
to the Quai du Louvre
alongside thin trails
of smoke
from Gitanes Brunes
my brand of cigarette
For cold mornings
I carry a flask
of brandy
that keeps me warm
and much too obliging
when haggling over price
for the things that are mine
antiquarian
Oh, did I mention Dominique?
Her shop’s at the Quai Voltaire
she fancies plaid skirts, black tights
and ballet slippers,
both at work
and when we make love,
keeps her hair tight
in a chin-length bob
she has over five thousand books
and claims to have read them all
I’ve watched her
read them all
Our shoppers stop by
to browse and buy
what makes them
remember and yearn
for simple times
and carriage days
through summer gardens
down long vanishing horizons
where once they kissed
under the victory arch
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 