Down Monaco Way

The lattice-worked iron passes
As slow as I can walk
Over my head
And frames the sky black.

The delicate, petits balconies
You see so often in these parts.

Slatted shutters form two-sided escorts,
White and lime green;
They line in convoys down the walls.

Walls of different moods;
Salmon pink, white, orange beige.

The scene speaks (no need to shout)
Of Napoleon’s Mediterranean dream.
Life may be like blackjack here,
But you can never really stick:
A lesson known to all school groups
With precocious hormones riding high,
Quickly burning down the wick
With each combustible cigarette twist
And laughing on the public bench.

Pretentious, yet refined.

Just turn your head, and see the sea. Oh God, the sea.
If I ever find a sight that makes my
Eyes lose all focus as does the sea...
All I know is I have never felt so free.
The way it just ripples in,
Yet rippling the eye out, and out,
And out.

A seagull stands on Science’s head,
And seems to regard me disdainfully.

The French could have shelled this place,
Perched on maritime cliffs,
At any point in history –
Monarchist France, divided Italy,
Fascist Italy, divided France,
Have both advanced over cliffs that surround
The beige-and-glass apartment blocks,
White yachts,
And banker’s penthouse suites.

It ends in the Passage de la Miséricorde.
In the gloom of la Miséricorde.

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