An apartment in Paris

Somehow we found this place, quiet, 
up four floors from the Rue Jussieu,
no elevator but a view
of the Eiffel Tower, 

View from our window

a round table for four, a kitchen small enough
that I could touch both walls, bright paintings
and warm bedding; in the bathroom,
a towel warmer of simple rods.

The tiny kitchen
very well organized

Downstairs, crepe boy 
at a streetside stand, tosssed
batter, sizzling butter, dazzling crepes
before our eyes.
We stood in line at the bakery around the corner
for warm, crusty French baguettes.
Across the street, we could descend 
to the subway and travel to any district,
our French good enough for the day's touring,
then home, Allen translating the news for me,
his voice low, then slower
and slower as the newscaster shifted
to matters of importance.

Welcome home!