La Tour Eiffel
So, I look down from liberating heights
by Herbert Nehrlich
into the boulevard of a French morning.
And for those doubting Thomases, not gallic:
Yes, it does sway, enough to squeeze your sphincter.
'How would it be', the question comes unbidden
to take le leap, would one float so serenely
that scenery appreciation busies all my senses.
Would there be fear or joy or rank indifference,
perhaps regret and flagellation of the self?
And would I, while descending, passing gawkers now
be saying to myself 'so far we're fine'?
By now, the sway has graduated past the usual,
perhaps it will, as its proud builder once predicted,
soon topple over, wiping out La Place, Des Rues,
and saving me the trouble of that dash of courage.
The sun is setting on historic Place de Gaulle,
a gentle breeze brings les odeurs from les croissants.
La nuit is urging all the faithful to complete
the day's activities, and think of Beaujolais.
A happy family indeed that I look down on,
though no one knows or pays, but scant, attention.
The wind has lied to kiss an early night,
I need to jump to stop embarrassing my soul,
and thus raise leading leg to mount the ochre rail,
when, from the rafters comes a scary shadow, colour noir,
a manysplendoured crow descends, lands on my thigh.
And then the words come out of weathered, yellow beak:
'Mon bon Monsieur', it was enough for me to turn.