Paris Encounter

How she intrigues me!

With her orange hair,

a fringe of ragged bangs

high on her forehead,

‘90s punk rocker style,

she sits in a corner,

leaning against the window,

gazes out at me

with such intelligent eyes.

She doesn’t look away;

she blinks, still holds my gaze.

What is this look?

I wouldn’t call it happy,

nor is it sad. Just aware.

Thoughtful. Musing.

She doesn’t seem to mind

my standing close to the window

talking to her in a low voice, enchanted.

She touches the glass with one horny finger.

Her breasts are gray over several folds of belly.

A shaggy orange cape, draped

over her shoulders, covers her long arms.

She grins wide, shows her sharp teeth,

and turning towards the glass, kisses me.

She glances up, looks away, shy,

gazes back at me.

There are giant branches of driftwood, dead trees,

thick rope and black tires in her house,

but none of that interests her.

She sits by the window, yearning.

I’d like to take her home, but everyone would object.

The gardienne would throw up her hands in horror;

our good bourgeois neighbors would be alarmed,

call a special meeting of the syndic[1];

even Marley le chat would be incensed.

Anyway, our ceiling is too low. In her native land,

she sleeps in a nest of branches she builds

65 feet from the ground, sometimes with a roof

to protect her from the rain. She’s a solitary

acrobate des arbres[2], athlete of the air.

[1] Syndic de copropriété, a board that oversees common property in an apartment building in France. Like a Coop board.

[2] Acrobat of the trees