Gillian Nevers

Paris

I dream of going to Paris, of strolling

wide boulevards in a green silk dress.

I imagine riding the wind-creaking lift

to the top of the Eiffel Tower, where I marvel

at the dizzy grid of winking lights below.

And, afterwards, lounge on a leather banquette

in a mirror-lined café, lazily twirling figure-eights

through dense, dark chocolate with a silver spoon.

Hell, I’ll be lucky to go

to Chicago. Right now, if I could, I would

board the North Shore in Milwaukee,

ride the swaying train south to Union Station,

walk east toward the lake, straight

into a blast of cold, spring wind.

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