The rum of a scooter buzzing down the street. A man stands in front of a small family owned restaurant while the premonitions of summer dance about the people. He plays the accordion under an umbrella as a couple sits at a small circle table, listening to the man with black leather sandals sing, his arms pushing his instrument like a recurring hug. He controls his voice with the muscle of his throat brushing against the spirit soaring out from his mouth. A car dashes past and the neighbors stand outside their balconies, ears turned towards Rue Championnet as if the street were a seashell.
I think she flung her body like an ocean, riddling with the wind. She flew by my window in the form of a bruised banana yellow canary bird. I could tell it was Josephine by the musical theatre of it’s wings fluttering in Little Africa.
Where ever a woman wandering in blues, adorned in a symphony of humor, giggling at the ridiculous hypocracy of tears—Josephine is there. Pouting her lips, beaming the black pearls in her eyes, shivering a breeze in her hips.
This is how a woman blossoms into an elegant body, flailing her arms to the sky. Life is a sacred listen.
Pigeons swim above the buildings in unison like a pack of flying fish. The canary rises from the rail hurrying over to the small circle table. She gazes at the couple oozing a lover’s spring across the street. The man with the accordion and black sandals seaweeds his body and Josephine loves him.
I imagine she never lost her awe of shimmering, washing through the Rues of Paris like fresh water.