My wand'ring often leads to Sacre-Coeur
When Fortune opts to place me in Paris
As if my aim though feckless and mission-free
Should hit the heart of the powdered dome so sure,
The satin ribbon of the Seine's a lure
And starting point for many a sight-see
Where I could rendezvous with french Marie
And maybe linger, kissing, pendant des heures,
Then later, hearts besotted, footsteps make
The well-worn lovers' trek to the wedding cake
On up the concrete stairs that suck the air
We climb onto La Butte from which we stare:
The streets and buildings fold beneath our view
The people, too, that leaves us the precious few.
16 April 2023
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