Dis, qu’as-tu fait, toi que voilà,
   De ta jeunesse?
– Verlaine

Because in a foreign city even at eight
he needs the familiar nearby, to hitch
the gaze like the reins of that lacquered
horse to a fixed spot, in order to let loose,
someone to witness his flight or he can’t
fully feel it, body forward but head turned
to the side, my side, he keeps me pinned here
on a bench at the roundabout’s centre,
where I give back affirmation, looking out
from my still point, dead as a cyclone’s eye.

I’m as much part of the furniture as each faceted
mirror, each Parisian pom-pom and oom-pa-pa,
mutely crucial like the unseen inner wheel
of the hurdy-gurdy, the curlicued chairs
and pastel tableaux where small folk-tale scenes
suffer grotesque encroachment but nevertheless
stay put, defying centrifugal force, I am what was
and he is what will be, launching eternally
into a churning future – over our heads it says
La Belle Époque La Belle Époque La Belle Époque.
 

Thumbnail image: Carnival the Carousel, Georges Lemmen, 1890–1892.