Chantelle Daines
I wandered into traffic’s trail of smoke rings
that smelled of gutter water and French breath,
scents of Paris, its polluted mess.
Bed-lacking nomads seek less unclean things.
Children pickpocket jeans
through subway doors to touch a tourist’s wealth.
People are impure.
They’re raped and left to heal
alone,
to hide the lives they lead.
Paris bright-lighted buzz can never take
away the loneliness because the streets
themselves have never
stood a solo stance.
Time bruised-and-battered cobblestones can’t
trace
trials carved from every dead man’s roaming feet.
This place is far too found for wanderers to reach.
