Martinis at the Ritz, where thin girl Audrey
Hepburn trysted Cooper in the afternoon.
Then dinner at some bistro that’s survived
the march of change and small talk,
a patron who remembers us with nods, or not.
At last, round midnight, I’ll walk you
halfway over the Pont Neuf,
down steps where, seen only
by chance lovers on the quai,
some passing tug,
I will consign your ashes
to the Seine’s complicit hug.