"It won't be forever, like peasants,"

  the young French woman coo'd to the magazine man.  The morning commute had brought us through canals.  The more-metropolis-bound were standing soldiers of finance on a pallet raft above flooded train tracks.  Crossing to boats and to enter the underground of Paris.  She'd fished out a few coins to get us all a bakery item to share when only crumbs were on the newspapers to read.  The usuals were getting back to work.  Photographs of feet with ambitions of getting foot in door. 

  Somewhere. 

  "It's a costume.  And you must put it on," the Worcester boyman looked at the tall French man in solid tights and poofy shorts, "Not exactly sure those will fit me." 

  "Not the tights.  Those are mine." 

  Pigeons alighting from the reading tables revealed thieves carrying the furniture off. 

  Deep inhales of the vibrant colors' inky smell.  Dances with newspapers had seemingly overnight turned to frameable magazine art for some.  Serious newsprint people scoffed at the exuberance displayed by a more generic lot of writers at the trophies freeing from beat.  A man with keys on a necklace chain viewed the scene.  Surveying as marketing.  

  "Happy response?" A man in a bathrobe with a towel on his head joined the liminal people on the veranda.  

  In between the darkness of night and a day dawning--the pulse of city is more a few lights streaming to connect humans to actual production.  Still shots of lights on the move.  Streamers. 

  "Would you like to know more about our city?" 

  Cribnotes snatched.  "Spying?" 

  "What say they?" 

  "Fools." 

     Mignots, like, people who are sweet and weak, from those kind of spots, in lines, last chances, for? 

  "Very good, thank you." 

  "We've just stuffed our faces on the very last eggs, parboiled, here." 

  Invitations, real stationery, place cards, silver trays--tarnished.  The streets are full of them this morning.  Pillow cases and velvety bags with the lasts