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Quell heure est il? She asked.
And as a three time loser at French
I could only point to a clock tower,
but she was pleased.
Ah, merci. Merci.
Ah, merci! to stand in the dark
on a balmy September night in the City of Light
waiting for he who'd asked the same question
and gotten my English reply,
"I don't know."
Ah, merci.
He too was pleased,
but couldn't or wouldn't believe
Quell heure est il was all I knew of French
as I stood in line for a ticket to a play
I couldn't possibly understand but wouldn't
miss though I hadn't slept since leaving Vienna.
Now, I too watched the tower
anticipation a long minute
until he crossed the street.
Ah, merci.
Through the streets we walked,
and superstitious, I skirted every grate.
"In Paris you don't need to worry what's
under your feet, " he said,
"but what's poured from the windows."
Words two blocks later I learned to believe:
shoulders and hair wet
with what I hoped was water.
Ah, merci.
In Montmartre we entered a brightly lit Bistro
and watched crusty old men play cards.
"Deux Demis" he ordered, and ordered again
as we spoke of Goethe's Faust and fresh from playing
Gretchen in an ally in D.C.
I was pleased.
Ah, Merci.
Later, missing the last Metro
we walked through a, now, mythical night
that I unwrap like a rich ruby when I cannot sleep
to ease the pain of loneliness and a harried life.
Ah, merci.
Just before the sun began to cast shadows
of the archaic buildings onto the deserted street,
we ascended the stairs to his room
which had only bed, desk, sink.
He turned on the radio, and we danced slowly
intoxicated and at ease.
Ah, merci.
He unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it from my
shoulders, pulled off his own.
We danced my bare breasts against his equally bare chest
and moved slowly to the single bed.
He lay me down, pulled off my skirt and shoes.
Thin, then, the bones of my hips protruded.
He kissed them and ran his tongue up my belly,
kissed my breasts, nipples rising to meet his lips.
He moved gently over me until I whispered
Ah, merci and then fell asleep.
At the train station, he pushed back my red hair
and kissed me good-bye.
I boarded the train with that rich ruby night
wrapped in the tissue of my soul.
Watching him wave as I sat on the train,
a teary-eyed Gretchen knowing
"We too would meet again
but never in the dance."
Ah, merci, merci.
poem by Vicki Gates Bryant (4 a.m. March 7,1995)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good one, life of a man, beautifully described.