I’m in Paris, smell of tobacco burning, coffee and light smog,
A little heavy-headed on red wine
In the afternoon
With an interesting Irishman named Doolan.
Distant shouting of children,
No pressure, no sense of responsibility,
Sonnets and coffee in the afternoon,
No screaming kidnap victims,
Just fine patisseries, relaxed conversation
And enough beer to feel like a man.
No red brick council housing
With blue slate gardens and tracksuits and phoneheads
Who hate me and everything I stand for.
And all know I’m a coward,
And I’ve never been to Paris.