Elevenses In Paris Poem by Wild Bill Balding

My lips for now must be content to taste
the fresh squeezed lemon juice you recommend.
They will meet yours again quite soon, but now
you sketch; I watch the world and take a sip.

Across the square a dumpy bereted bloke
steers little dog towards the pavement's edge:
it strains, and lays a large tan spiral shape,
a Play-Doh sausage-maker on the job.
I didn't know a dog could do so much,
and, from its shocked expression, nor did it.

The owner scrapes some litter on the s**t.
I push our plate towards you with a smile:
that Danish pastry's yours, I think, my sweet -
I shan't feel like it for a little while.