Lost in Paris, but found in love
a few strokes after midnight,
a few strokes after the age
at which the midwife starts to frown.
He knew his way around, he said.
he knew where they were going, he said.
she knew it was getting too late
she knew there was more than one clock to beat.
They tried three murky rues and then six and then nine
till it seemed like the city of light had more
dark corners than his family tree.
But all they found was debris, strapped neatly for the morning.
When the clock struck one, she finally found a cab
The driver took one look at the grey face at her side and said
“I’m not taking him, he’s ill!”
Later, much later, she’d wonder if she should have said the
If you have any comments on this poem, Emma Moller would
be pleased to hear from you.