The Dauphin

Rain falls in the vieux-ville. Slap-shot, spring-loaded,
Imprecise, plunging between granite, cobblestoned
Echoes of New York, Paris, Minnesota. Adults schlep through
Puddles, whilst the next generation dozes beneath plastic.

Snow turns to slush on La Montaigne. The pushchair
Balks at this fag-end season. It skews and ruts.
Finally the adults concede defeat. One at each
Corner, they bear the child, a viceroy in his sedan.

Toothache and cold drive the child to distraction. He
Rages against his world. His rage is splenetic,
Haphazard. Later he sleeps. The adults assess his
Every move, reading the runes of the next generation.