He took out the wine from his briefcase,
and silently poured for himself.
In the window, over the roofscape
towered the Tour Eiffel.
The crimson selvedge of sunset
flecked the zinc-surfaced sill;
‘…vraiment ça finit mal’, a voice said,
loud through the party wall.
A chance phrase, overheard, like this one,
during days of such tristesse,
and you well might make for the kitchen,
where it’s easy to turn on the gas.