Republique

Republique metro stop

never leaves the 11th arrondissement.

It never doesn't smell

like chain smokers,

or sliced ham

or rush hour.

The haulage of subway cars

forces me to hold hands

with unfamiliar visitors

in a space filled 

with dripping 

umbrellas.

Tonight a Frenchman doesn't wear a black coat

behind me.

He's dressed in quilted

rainbows and sings Bob Marley.

He reminds me 

my teeth loose color

when I drink Merlot

and that the crescent moon

forms a spotless heart.

Emotionless women near me

don't need reminders.

They follow me up 80 steps

to men selling

cooked chestnuts in shopping carts.

Green sparks peel from their hands 

and we pass the smell

of edible nuts rolling

in yesterdays newspaper.

The women smoke cigarettes

as long as their legs

and 

I follow behind the

emblem of fume,

leading all of us home.