Les Chefs De France
I sit
in the square
at a table
with one chair
watching the pace
of people
go by
some measured
careful
others unsteady
weighted
the ease
and grace
mingled with
the faltered
the fragile
canes and wands and swords
wearers of watches
and empty pockets
and mixed-up minds
the fountain rumbles like a distant
waterfall
and the pink flowers
behind black bars
catch the eye
of a passerby butterfly
on its way across
the Seine
where the roses bloom
and extend
like a prima ballerina
rippling across
Swan Lake
TL