by Ross Jackson

a sweep of Paris from Marcel’s tiny balcony
on quatrième étage de l’Hôtel Gay Lussac
tight focus on our protagonist’s dreadfully pained face
cue—sound of wind, his bedroom’s shutters clapping behind him

alter camera pov to the pavement immediately below
show pedestrians noticeably startled
by the racket of a mouth organ, horn and pedal drum
being played by a one-man band

hysterical violin
super close up of a cat leaping away from vehicular traffic
frame its front parts cellulose whitened
its back half still an umbra

Marcel’s practised show of anguish
the teetering load of his bodyweight
the straining arches of his feet
on cast-iron railings

seen from on high—one of those matchsticks
caught in the swell, around and between
that moving river of vehicle roofs
we already know to be She, en route to a reconciliation

but too late
he jumps, does not land on his feet
alors, the road does not flinch, nor does it wince,
the brute