Looking down on the Paris street
from a hotel window streaked with rain
seeing the beauty that moved Monet.
The gray buildings and wet avenues
the dark form of people slouching
beneath beetle shaped umbrellas
dodging buses and taxis
their reflections staining the pavement.
It is an impression only.
An impression influenced
by Monet’s impression.
And there is an overwhelming urge
to be a part of it.
the creaking cage of the ancient lift
rudely descends to the lobby
that has never seen the sun.
Then it is through the large
brass and glass oak doors
to be assaulted by the chaos.
Reality slaps vision into focus
people argue and fence with baguettes
vehicles snort and cough their nasal horns
in the dirty air gray with soot.
The air smells of coal and wet berets
bits and pieces; relics of life’s day
float past in the gutter
cigarette smoke stings my eyes.
The Eiffel Tower is pointless in the fog
umbrellas stab and thrust and poke
like Georgi Markov’s assassin
Notre Dame’s misty mass
interrupts the horizon
like the gray ghost of shame.
Pigeons huddle with the homeless
in their shuttered doorways
and Paris is ugly in the rain.
At least, that was my impression.