Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded.
I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded.
But I’m in Paris with you.
Yes I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through.
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this or that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.
Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris with. . . all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.
— James Fenton
My agent says Los Angeles will call.
My broker says to sell without delay.
My doctor says the spot is very small.
My lover says get tested right away.
My congressman says yes, he truly cares.
My bottle says he’ll see me after five.
My mirror says to pluck a few stray hairs.
My mother says that she is still alive.
My leader says we may have seen the worst.
My mistress says her eyes are like the sun.
My bride says that its true I’m not the first.
My landlord says he’d think about a gun.
My boss says that I’d better take a chair.
My enemy says turn the other cheek.
My rival says that all in love is fair.
My brother says he’s coming for a week.
My teacher says my work is very neat.
My ex-wife says I haven’t heard the last.
My usher says the big guy’s in my seat.
My captain says to bind him to the mast.
My master says I must be taught my place.
My conscience says my schemes will never fly.
My father says he doesn’t like my face.
My lawyer says I shouldn’t testify.
My buddy says this time I’ve got it bad.
My first love says she can’t recall my name.
My baby says my singing makes her sad.
My dog says that she loves me all the same.
My pastor says to walk the narrow path.
My coach says someone else will get the ball.
My God says I shall bend beneath His wrath.
My agent says Los Angeles may call.
—R. S. Gwynn
There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.
— Anne Sexton
