Passage 17.
Hommage à François Villon
Street photographer and drifter,
Boulevardier and flâneur,
I crave to engage the city.
That’s the premise of my ditty.
Paris beckons me with arcades.
Where are the flâneurs of yesteryear?
All vanished? Where are their cockades?
The passages that were their sphere
show colonnades with sporting gear,
antique books, high-end ladies shoes.
To pass by unseen was their fear.
Now unknown, they sing the blues.
We search in shops for silk brocades.
Where are the dandies of yesteryear?
Cruising still? Where are their cavalcades?
Their repartee brings us good cheer;
Our comebacks greeted with a sneer.
Insouciant, they stroll these Rues.
To lose la mode brings them a tear.
They’re unheard, and sing the blues.
I see May 68’s barricades.
Where are the street photographers of yesteryear?
Paving stones fly from the blockades.
They shoot, run, and film without fear
students, workers, police who clear
factories. They roam, expecting coups.
Photographers stalk, frame, and peer.
Complete unknowns, they sing the blues.
I find few shoppers in arcades.
Where are the tourists of yesteryear?
Amazon deals are like cascades.
These shops are for the upper tier.
I want to see and be seen, but veer
away to Twitter with my slews
of followers who hold my ear.
They’re trolling, and I sing the blues.
They cruise no more in motorcades.
Where are the drifters of yesteryear?
Dérive players pass like brigades
with app in hand, urged to twist, shear
psychogeographical queer
vortexes, following in twos
their task cards that Dérive brews.
Random yet cued, they sing the blues.
Adrift in Paris without clues,
I listen for some connecting news.
Street musicians are what I hear.
They look. They nod. I sing the blues.