CHINESE NEW YEAR PARADE, PARIS, 2010
Bamboo sticks suspended mid-air,
les batteurs are frozen,
along with their red drums.
The cymbal players too
and the girls in sleeveless red and yellow frocks;
from the exhaled breaths
of spectators along le Rue de Payenne
coils of smoke constantly create
a double helix with the streams of ice
from congealed firecrackers, hover
high as the balconies where a few residents
peer out, their eyes becoming distant stars.
Only the dragon moves, slithers with no end in sight,
blocking the street so none can escape.
I fear I will suffer a morte de froid
(O it sounds so much better in French! )
hands stiffening despite three sets of gloves.
When will a gong ring out to end
this cauchemar, this dream that might not be
a dream at all.