Boudin

Here in the French city, people sizzle. The sun hangs high overhead and preys on weary travelers. The language floats like living art from tongue to ear, but I cannot catch the meaning. It's like a Jackson Pollack painting. From street to park to museum we wander. We stop and gawk inside the sacred heart. The magic I expected isn't here, where trash rolls down the street and drunk boys vomit in Metro cars, but then again, I expected that too.