These Glorious Moments
Does it detract from the poem-ness of these lines to report
I am waiting for the bus to take me to the Right Bank?
If not, then let me be more specific.
The bus stop is within easy ear-range of the
church of Saint Germain des
Whose large wooden doors spread wide welcoming
late arriving observants,
and casual passers-by who happen to be
public transportation this Sunday.
A piece by Buxtehude, unless I am mistaken,
is brilliantly surging from the organ,
choir sings back up or
has the organist perhaps pulled the stop marked:
A discrete and understated choir more likely,
wafting incense as potent as the
organ music floats out the open doors,
and across the street a large black and white photograph
of Kate Moss
folded arms over her breasts
only the slightest suggestion of her
The bus arrives
a man wearing a yellow bow tie already on the bus.
Perhaps there is a god,
at least for these glorious moments
Paris 2017 #77