Beyond the Grande Jatte

When the world looked hot
we fled the city sweat
and crowded market,

took our sticky selves
to the Bois de Bologne
and, not allowed

to luncheon on the grass,
we hid our delicacies
behind an iron bench,

watched the peacock's
brazen irritation
between bits of quiche and wine.

Having secretly dined
without further reproach,
we sought the shaded paths

until we found Chopin
played by a young man,
and a few seats left.

Movements flew from fingers,
notes leavened by the summer
and Bordeaux. The ghost of a breeze

crept through open windows, past
the rose garden's usual hues
now muted by that sheer bright.