
(a poem what I wrote)
I guess he needed my wallet more than I did As I walked away from the cashpoint On Boulevard de Magenta Down the street from the fleabag joint We were staying in He came up behind me right arm coming over my shoulder, knife held to my throat his left arm clenching my chest to hold me back like a boulder Whispering ‘Doucement, doucement…’ Not quite the French sweet nothings one likes to hear Whilst strolling through Paris in winter With a lusty buzz from a couple of beers Again, but grunting through clenched teeth ‘Doucement, doucement…’ Il n’avait pas de l’argent I guess I kept his knifehand at bay By pushing it the other way with my own two hands Never quite removing it as a threat to my immediate wellbeing (truth be told, I’ve made stronger stands) The traffic lights had just turned red As my girlfriend began hitting him on the head with her bag And I shuffled with him clinging to me Like a limpet As I emerged from the sea Into the middle of the emptied street Whilst thirty or so Onlookers took in the show As the Parisian drivers realised that I had just created a roadblock To the freedom provided by the impending green light They began beeping their horns and yelling Giving the Algerian a bit of a fright As I refused to move from the middle of the road Green gets flashed from the light He relents and runs to the opposite side I stand in place between the lanes Waiting for the gap in the cars so I could return to my side of the river But wallet still in tact