Finally, after a week of cooing how cool Cannes can be

if one is a sensitive poet/reviewer/observer of life,

we get real with a foul mood, sulk through the fresh fruit,

refuse to choose among twenty frigging different kinds of olives,

mope up the steps to La Place du 18 Juin, decline

to parler with Agnès when she brings the coffee,

bark at Poopsie for stopping to admire a pair of pink shoes,

glower at the clerk who takes his sweet-ass time

ringing up my copy of Le Monde,

and wish I were someplace more exciting

than this scooter-crazed cul-de-sac

of topless Euro-tans and yachts.

I can’t wait to kiss someone goodbye

on the wrong cheek and go back home—

where my smart, dark mood knows the local language

and always keeps his portmonteau packed for the next place

where I will dream I’ve given him the slip.

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