La carte d'identité


He would get stopped at borders
and send frantic calls,
awakening her from ivory dreams
and the traffic
that circled like the shadows
under her eyes
as she dragged out
faded pictures
and sketches on napkins.

She had a small peugeot then,
olive green, easy to park
manoevering through Paris
was always bad enough;
they drove to Nice,
he wanted to paint the sea
even though she recommended
the sandy shores of the north,
he was drawn to faded glitz
and a stifling room
next door to a bathroom,
where the local food
caused a chain of catastrophes.

The last she saw him
was at the immigration office
arguing and gesticulating,
she slipped him a kiss
and placed his
carte d'identité
on the vinyl seat
in the waiting room.
She took her peugeot
and as she drove
she scattered his belongings
along the highways and byways
travelling routes
they would never traverse.



Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 438 times
Written on 2012-08-17 at 20:56

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F.i.in.e Moods The PoetBay support member heart!
You always take me away to places with so much life and detail in your words... it's sublime. Love this *hugs* xx
2012-08-20



So much depends on our cartes d'identite.

Entertaining and well-penned slice-of-life poemt.

William
2012-08-17