Walking out of the airport lounge,
I saw this lady.
A little anxious but waiting,
She seemed to be in transit.
I was in a trance. It
Wasn’t just her
Slow hair whips, beckoning eyes and shape
That blew me away.
OK, I’ll be on my way.
But before I fly, I have to wait
Like others, at her gate.
“You are madam …?”
“Madam Oiselle” her lips giggled.
An oasis — it seems.
I would offer — something,
“Oui, Mille pièces d’or,” she said.
“Anything for you to ride with me.”
“Alors, quarante mille pièces d’or.”
I was processing…With her I’d like to ride,
But a car for our first meal?! What an expense…
“Si vous voulez, parlez!”
Stressing on the ‘r’ — at this hour.
Pause beauty, “You aren’t late — yet” I replied.
“Your number maybe?”
Code de France, huit, quarante mille
Et vingt,” she said hastily.
I didn’t get it; she kept conditioning.
I would stick to just her number.
But she now wanted car and meal and wine.
I love wine from the many French regions;
I just had a lot of it — Well, I think.
That’s what the lounge waiter told me
Late it is now — anyway;
Besides, I don’t have a car in this city;
I’m in a taxi.
My Oiselle is gone to Paris.