Picnicking on the Seine

After a morning
of love-making,
an afternoon of impressionism,
and an evening
in the Luxembourg Gardens,
we'll go to the Seine
at sundown
and experience the long
cooling of darkness coming
with the young Parisians.
We'll listen
to the water bubble
under passing boats,
a couple in an arguement
that we can't understand,
murmur into each other's ears
about the morning
as we drink a Bordeaux
and the moon rises
on the other bank.
Somewhere a mile away
on the metro
an accordion
will hum to an old lady
who will die tonight,
to a couple
who will conceive
in thirty minutes;
the Metro's red line stops
on average
every three minutes,
thirty-seven seconds.
A man will approach
selling fresh flowers.
We'll smile him away,
"no, merci,"
finally open
the picnic basket:
a wrapped cheese,
a baguette,
and at your request,
mandarin oranges
from the street vendor
with a scarf tied
around her head
and a missing front tooth.
She knew English,
even a little,
we knew,
but your elation
showed when you
completed the purchase
in stuttered French.
This evening
I promise you.