Hot June, hip Paris, hurrying and harassed, as we
run to board the cramped and crushing metro carriage.
And then, a voice from behind-‘Excuse me sir,
but would you like to sit here? You look tired,
and I am much younger than you.’ Not once,
but twice did this happen, and both times, I laughed.
Every opportunity that affords me to say these words,
in its original tongue, is taken with the utmost delight.
He smiles, wondering if I will ever tire of this little quip,
if fate would hit me with a similar line or situation.
And then, just the other day-it was his turn to laugh.
On the bus, not one, but three guys offered me their seats.
A more self satisfied man you have never seen, as he stood,
and I sat in the seat for the elderly. I could feel his smugness
from six foot away, as he smiled and gave me one of those
Barry’s, looking as if he was about to pick his nose. I smiled,
as I explained, the difference was that the guys were
overcome with my presence, that they had to stand up for me.
Thank goodness he can’t speak French; I’m sure it would
be his favourite refrain-‘Madame, madame. Voulez vous asoir ici, ca va?’
Truce in place, as we speak, quid pro quo-until the next time.
I must keeping drinking the youth dew, acquired from the fairies.
That way, I’ll always be one step ahead, in the quest for eternal youth.
Accepting the ageing process is a battle we all endure, till our final hour.