NEW AGE PARIS

In another age, she’d have made him his tea,
something with suet to cling to his ribs;
asked after his family, brought out the schnapps.

In another age, he’d have looked on her kindly;
not noticed the hair-band concealing her roots,
the amateur rouge staining her cheeks.

Kevlar man is confronting the she-bear;
her machine-gun questions earn her no answers.
He can’t explain he’s as helpless as she.

In another age, their eyes would be smiling,
lips released from their puckered distaste.
Yellow would not be street colour of choice.

In a distant age, they knew nothing of banners;
Pas de raix sociale sans portage equitable!
Le peuple nest pas une vache a lait!