Deborah Bacharach


One cold spring when I lived in shit-
strewn Paris and had to fight to buy
a ham sandwich and my food
was stolen and my books
were stolen and the man
I wanted had no time
and a man on the street
dropped his pants and leered,
I did not walk through the grand arch
of the Musée D’Orsey every day,
every damn day.

You can find Deborah Bacharach‘s poems in her book After I Stop Lying, in concis and Texas Review, or on