Claire on Love
It's not a falling into,
it's a lifting out of,
a drifting up, you're filled
with fine champagne and see
all that's ordinary through a pale gold tint.
There's no food but angel cake,
mousse, and meringue.
Your hair? Cut it short and chic, then shimmy
into a dress that's pure frou-frou.
Now you feel Parisienne,
think Colette, think Truffaut,
think Jean-Paul Belmondo.
He kisses your fingertips,
you breathe his scent,
the air is charged wih molecules of zing,
voices are music, and the nights
zip and swoop by like swallows.
................. Mais alors ...................
He smokes, he complains,
he has melancholic moods,
he leans on you for something
you can't give or won't,
not here, not now, not him.
It's a burdensome thing, love.
You stare into the fountain. The water's
sluggish brown, clogged with leaves,
gum wrappers, pennies.
How to get out with some grace
is a problem, and it's now, you remember,
that the falling begins.