The 3ème becomes the 10ème and 11ème
on the other side of the Place de la République:
beyond that, the canal Saint Martin, color of piss and phlegm,
is slow and local. The tow-bridges squeak
back against the lock walls and let a low barge wallow
in and wait as the water floods down from the lock
until it’s level with the one that follows;
the stout lock-keeper trudges importantly back a block
to his bridge, and the barge slides one square tub closer
to the tunnel under the Boulevard Jules Ferry.
I lean on the railing and wait for it to disappear
since I don’t think I have anything pressing to do
as the clouds suddenly break and the sky comes clear
with a January afternoon’s brief clarity.
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