Early, early morning
My first steps in Paris out of the Hotel Beauchamp.
The sky slowly gathers the day’s first rays, spreads them sparingly,
the air almost cool but damp,
the searing August heat, building,
teasing, planning a grand entrance.

Left, right, then straight ahead to the Champs-Élysée.
A stranger approaches, I try to catch her eye to smile.
My heart rises but  her eyes remain fixed beyond me.

Left or right?
The Pont Alexandre III or the Arc de Triomphe?
I glance in both directions for a sign.
The breeze scoffs its impatience,
gives me a firm push to the left.
“Sacré bleu, the grandeur of the bridge awaits you.”

Smiling and keeping
a friendly grip on my shoulder, an audible laugh
as if sharing a joke with old friends.
I do not speak French but, je comprende, somehow I understand every word.
 Mon ami, move along quickly or the moment will be lost,
 the tourists will be out soon!

I dream about the south face of the wall. In I see a young Diego Rivera
With Frida Kahlo, pallets dripping rainbow colors; they paint.
He proud people and history, brown farmers, workers, warriors, temples, leaders.
She, people, watermelons, self-portraits in bright native dress or naked, her soul.
Expressing her pain, her optimism, life’s tragedies, divine hope.

/  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /  –  /

I see the wall’s north side while fully awake. Stacks of crumbling bricks,
drab grays of ice and hate. A dark shadowy silhouette, an outline of fear
forged by desire to preserve an idyllic time that is only imagined.
A stark blank surface, blocking light but sending its message, “Be afraid!”