View from a Paris Window

Warmth strikes the building opposite
filling windows with bloodshot blooms.
The air, thickened up for the summer
with street scented stock,
moves through my room,
the osmotic creep of seasons.

Out across the rooftop desert
clinging to the cacti aerials,
the muted, damp tones of winter
dry to full brilliance
beneath the the orange-agar sun,
petri-dish perfect
in the swollen bosom of the sky.

Worn shutters, locked in ‘glide’
waiting for the greasy fast food thermals,
riding the isobars of awe
from self-satisfied tourists,
grey against the life
etched into the face of my friend.
His stained face,
like an old wedding cake
left in the sun too long.

Dear friend of many years
with your sad pierrot face,
your cement teeth grind
irritated by the chunks of neon
stuck in your gums.
You weep the pain of years,
and stain your face with ivy tears.
We have seen too much,
you and I,
tomorrow we will see more.