lock, stock and barrel – along with thousands
of others, we were joined together over the
Seine – such a cheesy sentimental thing to do.
But somehow it felt portentous, important,
eternal – so even though the wind was howling
crazy like home, arctic-wolf colder-than-cold,
and snow was spitting sideways at us, we knelt
down and slid that sucker hasp through two
bars on the bridge, twisted it tight and clicked
it home – used the key to check for safekeeping.
Is it possible to lock love in place – in Paris?
You know it.
*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem Wild Grass
from the book Home of Sudden Service.