Paris poem

I keep saying I’m moving to Paris
though I have not bought a ticket.
Though my French is
something a child would laugh at.

I say it to the cashier. I say it to the postman.
I say it to my reflection
in the window at night.

I say it into voicemail. I say it in emails
I don’t send. I say it to the cat
while she’s eating.

I say it while folding laundry. I say it
to no one at the bus stop.
I mouth it at traffic lights.

Paris, I say, with no particular tone.
Just the word. It feels
like a little room in my mouth.

I think about the bridges.
I think about bread.
Mostly I think about walking.

I imagine the part of the city
where I will not know anyone,
where my name will not sound like my name.

At night I lie in bed and practice forgetting.
I picture an apartment, a small one.
A plant in the window. No computer.

I will send letters to myself from the corner postbox.
They will say things like:
You are here now.
and
You don’t owe anyone an explanation.

And when people ask why Paris,
I’ll say,
details scatter like pigeons across the Seine.