Fire under the Bridge
Under the
Pont-Neuf
bridge
the
burning diesel of a sunken barge
eschews
black acrid cloying smoke
onto
French Impressionists
and art
ladies selling their wares.
I bolt
the camera down, the snap
a shot,
the sound only heard by nearby ears,
the frame
will show Paris
will show
the ineptitude of firemen
the
persistent controlling influence
of Gendarme
in black uniforms
(to match
the smoke perhaps)
The
courtesans flee their expensive apartments,
race for
the safety of the Louvre
the
sanctity of Notre Dame
the
virgin palaces of the Moulin Rouge,
anywhere
where their fine pantaloons
are
singed by another heat.
The fire
on the Seine is a rarity
too dark
for startled monks on sabbatical,
too stark
for wayward children
studying
in the nearby seminary,
tres
magnifique for politicians
the
rustle of an oak in a wis
carries
with it the hopes of many,
the
thanks to the riverboat captain
for
containing the spill, quick thinking,
the foam
from dozens of fire trucks,
an ever
present Gendarmerie whistling
directing
traffic, arresting bystanders,
the sound
of a cuckold model
being
snapped with her clothes off.
Today, Paris
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