Sonya And Paris 1973 Poem by Terry Collett

You loved Paris,
its bars and restaurants,
the shows, the art,
the music, but you hated
the cheap hotel
with the bidet
and flush toilet and sink
we had to go buy cleaner
to get the scum off.

You sat by the window
looking out
at the Parisian street below;
I was lay on the bed
reading the Dostoevsky book,
entering the Russian novel.

There's a depth to the Russians
lacking in other countries,
you said, except us Danes.

I looked over the cover of the book,
taking in your blonde hair,
your slim figure.

Yet so few philosophers,
I said, exceptBerdyaev.

You looked at me:
there are many
Russian philosophers,
but they are little known
in the West, you said,
but Russian novelist
are in a sense
philosophers also.

I guess so,
I said,
returning to my book.

You want to go out
for a meal now?
You said.

I closed the book,
shut out that bit of Russia.

Sure, if you like,
I said.

I put the book
by the bed
and we went out.

We chose our favourite cafe
in Montmartre
and chose our meal
and red wine.

You said we could go see
the piano recital afterwards,
someone was playing
a selection of Mozart
and Beethoven sonatas.

I watched the waitress come
to our table with our meals.

She was young
and as she leaned forward
a fine bosom hidden behind
her white blouse
came to view.

You focused on the meal,
I on her as she walked away;
what else
could a young man do?