Maggie Butt

Pigalle

This Rue is where my daughter plans to live:
a tatoo artist yelling at a drunk;
three old men sun their leathered chests and give
her leering looks; a flame-haired punk
holds fresh baguette and tiny dogs on leads;
a corner bar boasts cross-dress cabaret;
the scent of urine rises; heat forms beads
of sweat – a spring Parisian bouquet.

But strangers share their picnic in the park
and she will climb five flights of champagne night
where rooftops of Montmartre after dark
gleam with reflected gold and ruby light,
throw wide the shutters, sip the air’s rich wine,
intoxicated, think, “All this is mine.”