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.