A man offers us directions in French, vowels
and consonants served on a platter
of smiles. Trains click past. Stations
are cards shuffled, threshold after threshold
offering its chance. We count the stops
to Champs-Elysees.
Mornings are commuters with strollers
and briefcases. Paris afternoons
are smoked down, crumpled cigarettes
dropped in gutters. We trudge back to Montmartre
through placards for braided hair,
a smell of coffee and piss,
young people crouching in doorways.
We buy bread and cheese at the boulangerie.
At Du Vert au Vin, wine
winks from the walls,
fish in an aquarium. I keep thinking
of that corner of the Metro,
subterranean and damp, where a Syrian family
begged from a blue tarp. The woman
behind her veil, the man lying on his side.
Their toddler, sitting between them,
wide eyes watching us as we passed.

– Bethany Reid