Sunday in Paris

 

It is Sunday

in Paris.

All of the supermarkets are closed

apart from this one.

The lady in front

buys a packet of jam tarts

and a tin of cat food.

I think about you

in your clean flat

eating orange lentils.

I think about

all of the Sundays

that have gone already in our lives

when we bought sunflowers just because

my dress was yellow

and scuffed up Brick Lane

in our matching shoes.

But now I am in Paris

and you are hungover

somewhere

it is raining

and I have forgotten

my coat.