Paris Poem by A.S. Wilson

The city of lights
beckoned to us,
drew us in as if we
were dull flying bugs
who didn’t know any better
than to rush for the brightest
bulb on the planet
thinking all that light would be cool,
refreshing, somehow.
It is not. It is hot.
It burns from the moment you look
out the window of flight 7354
closing in on Monsieur
Charles de Gaulle’s aeroport.
The summer rain does nothing
to cool the lights, the heat
that builds as we taxi to our hotel.
Cross firings of energy begin with
all that water; short circuits that send
pungent smoke into our nostrils
and curling through our hair.
The lights never dimmed, never once
lost their brilliance as we criss-crossed
the city, wanting, praying for relief
from our own foolishness.
Our sacrifice to heat and light made
no difference to the city. It has
consumed before, consumed more
than we can ever hope to lose.