Aux Tuileries

Puddles gleamed
in the sun today like
overmilked tea brewing
in gravel bowls

which is really quite sad
for there is so much more
there
that is distinctly un-tea:

sand that could have lined
the banks of a great romantic river

rain water from 
god-knows-where, maybe Bermuda,
each droplet an angel
freshly fallen to
stew in warming muck,
a raging hangover
after transatlantic ecstasy

all mixed in footprints
with dust lifted off the Louvre
and some sandwich crumbs probably
and definitely some skin
shedded by passers-by,
messy microscopic soup

Is this not
how we all came about?

A womb impregnated 
by the watery ejaculate
of a nuage flâneur
by now showering Montmartre
before strolling out
to the banlieues,
going far and drying out. 

I have left home 
and come back
with soggy socks, 
all to be washed down
with a sad tea. 

Children step into puddles
for the splash.