Last Day in Paris

a poem to remind us how to live again

In a brasserie on the corner
of a triangular
cobblestone street
I order a ‘spritz’ which arrives
with cherry and lemon candies –
chewy bursts of sweetness –
skewered on the rim
and a ramekin of young olives
marinated in fresh dill.

The sun sinks behind
an ancient oak tree
while laughing lovers touch foreheads.
A Parisian grandmother
sips pink champagne and
clinks glasses with her granddaughter
who is drinking a fruity mojito.

A dapper man dressed in a suit,
two baguettes under his arm
rushes to catch the Metro
home.
I close my eyes and
breathe in the late August warmth –
the stress of procuring negative covid tests
and producing boarding passes complete –
and give thanks to the French
for reminding me how to live.