If one sits on the steps of Sacré Coeur
to see the city after dusk,
one sees, too, in the cold, each traveler:
the silk-scarved men, distinct with musk;
the ladies in flared miniskirts and tights,
most often black or midnight blue,
occasionally punctuated — brights,
or puce, or some unlikely hue.
One sees the leathered packs with cigarettes
on precipices blowing smoke.
One listens to musicians finger frets
for famous songs, of rock or folk,
And smells some bitter andouille on the wind,
grim and scraggly grass in cracks,
the perspiration of the olive-skinned,
or warmly melted votive wax.
Green macaron in hand, its mellow paste