The Ghettos

The Ghettos

Paris is ruins here,

the houses

balancing on each other,

wires running to nowhere.

The Métro

stops

and goes

releasing the smoke

that they feed on,

watched by the city lights.

She traces her fingers on the windows

as she rides home

watching for the old man

on the corner

feeding the pigeons.

Her only solace

in this night city

full of fountains

with empty promises;

that he every morning,

trembling like a scarecrow,

crumbles the bread for the birds,

life knotted in his old hands.