If I must live lonely, I might as well
move to Paris. Mingle with the nouveau
pauvres. Wear a beret and splash pastels
on canvas. Claim a radical plateau
in art: Call myself a repressionist.
Act insane by trying to cross the Seine
on foot. Write lyrics for a socialist
musical; stores on Avenue Montaigne
will love it. I’ll feign a bath each morning
at Thermes de Cluny; shout and quote Voltaire
every night at midnight. Ignore warnings
from le gendarme. Write verse like Baudelaire,
milked with sex and death. Critics all will call
me true Parisian: poet full of Gaul.
Roger Armbrust
April 1, 2012
