Outside, the shady Place du Tertre's beset
with plastered easels, hacks, and Coca-Cola
advertising. Jeanne finds a cassette,
Aristide Bruant Chante A Batignolles!,
slips it in the ancient tape machine
and takes her stool behind the gaudy bar.
The painters paste that old Utrillo scene
around the square as tourists storm Montmartre.
Our Jeanne, perusing Paris Match and dying
for a cigarette, looks up to find
two lovers at a sidewalk table vying
for the waiter's eye, hands intertwined,
and taking cell phone photographs. "Mais oh,
Mon Dieu," Jeanne fondly moans, "c'est tout trop beau."
