PINK SOCKS

They met outside Notre Dame

among a lassitude of students;

one hot August.

Struggling with a bottle of vin de table

she asked him if he had the wherewithal;

being polite he obliged.

Later, walking by the Seine, she asked:

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

They tumbled in his suburban flat,

thumbed through the first few chapters

of their lives, the curtains open.

They parted the next morning,

exchanged addresses, she gave him

the pink socks she’d worn all night.