Marilyn In Paris

Marilyn in Paris

Below the Place de la Sorbonne, we heard
them playing—bluesy jazz from a duet—
an old piano, and a clarinet.
A woman, housed in something like a shroud
of plastic bags, looked on with sadness,
and joy – the paradox is understood
in Paris, capital of the unfairly good.
It's later, when we wander along side-streets,
hands clasped for just a moment, that I wonder
exactly how that bruised piano landed there,
cramped sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare,
and why its tender music seemed an answer
to questions more keen. In her studio,
the master writes her poems: She would know.

Raphael Campo

Posted over on the Writer's Almanac
"Marilyn in Paris" by Rafael Campo, from The Enemy.