Howard Firkin
You never see a beret in Paris.
Or baguettes borne in baskets on a bicyclette
that's pedalled by a pertly pony-tailed petite Parisienne past
ululating youths and flat-capped workmen
sitting at the wrought iron café tables
drinking their anise and playing dominoes.
No. Poster Paris is passé.
But then, what isn't at my age?