Prose poem for Paris, inspired by an ugly tart
Oh Paris, you gave me skirts with rabbit-fur trim and danger-sexy designer bags on sale. You told me I looked like Cleopatra. You said j’ai envie de te faire l'amour and you brought me croissants in the morning, and oh Paris, you looked away when I walked your streets red-eyed, holding a wad of Kleenex. You made me say stupid things and stay too long and we were so lonely together, you and I.
Paris, now you’re making me write like Allen Ginsberg in "America."
Oh Paris, Sundays in Seattle aren’t the same.