Troop

Sid Branca Cook
Troop

In a pit of plastic frogs in paris
I fell, hobbled,
on allée andré breton

the poets rushed forward, mais
non, I winced, je marche

I gnash my teeth,
Roberto,
your thin legs
at which I spent so many hours

--in what language does there lie a yellow bow
to pull my cramping limbs together?

there were grey crossbeams, rain
there was soft, wet, red

I'm tired, she said
un peu fatiguée

the modern, a mantis
has staked me

I examine the flag, standing
my black fingernail flukes across the scape.


- Paris, February 2008