Gwil James Thomas

Paris. 

 

Feeling like I’m on the run from

what I don’t even know anymore –

I leave Spain and take the train up to Paris –

watching the land and architecture

slowly change from

yellow to green, white to grey.

 

In a grubby Parisian hotel room

that’s cost the remainder

of my fruit picking wages,

I check out the view from the window  –

outside several prostitutes pace up

and down the sad looking road,

whilst bored looking couples

eat in a McDonald’s.

 

Elsewhere in the city –

police brutality is up and the word

on the street is that the police blew off

one protestor’s hand earlier.

 

Romance    is    dead

even in Paris –

but tonight the poems are flowing

like a deep river

and maybe that’s no coincidence.

 

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