Phil Simmons
Paris Bus
Your father threw me out. Merci Papa.
That is, he let me stay the night,
kipping on the floor, virtually
lying there himself, one eye ajar,
between me and the bedroom door.
Oui. Merci. He gave me coffee too,
and told me where the bus-stop was,
then threw me out at half-past six,
lining you and chaste pyjama’d sisters
up to shake my hand and have me kissed
on neutral, soap-stung cheeks before I was
committed to the lift.
Sixteen floors down,
to the winter dark I’ve always hated.
Choisy-le-Roi, screaming planes into Orly.
Merci, Papa. The soft hiss of the folding
doors.
Page(s) 74
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