Paris

When your ex is flying to Paris
over Thanksgiving with some French au pair,
Try not to fantasize about
what they'll be doing there.

Don't picture them out strolling
dans le Jardin des Tuilleries,
Where they might pause a little
pour embrasser in les trees.

Or picnicking at Père Lachaise,
like my days à l'université,
Après, peut-être, a quiet visit
par l'awesome Musée d'Orsay.

Then, lounging at Les Deux Magots;
sipping panaché for fun,
Arrêtez avant you see him watching
her warm her face dans le sun.

Don't see them stretch their legs, baiser,
et après, regard à la vue.
Then retournez to her atelier
to take un nap, or two.

The autumns leaves; d'or, magenta, et rouge
will beg them to awaken,
but even the smell of croque monsieur
will be pas possible to shake them.

For they are dans a ville magique;
far, far from les Etats-Unis.
Time will elude them, his life won't intrude on him.
He's one lucky bastard, mais, oui?

On Thanksgiving Day I'll prenez ma fourchette
and stab a creamed onion or two,
run it lazily through my piscine of Mom's gravy,
Honestly, what else can I do?

Then I'll help clear la table, grab my sweet fils
and snuggle on the rug for a while,
Maybe ride bicyclettes, then marchez sur la plage,
let the long jour unfold without guile,

Gaze out at la mer, and be thankful I'm here
because Paris isn't going anywhere,
"The trip is the trip," as my père used to say,
and my vie is beaucoup plus than fair.