The Duke
Here, he sat and pondered like before.
Every Sunday watching the boats row by
on a placid sheet of glass, his favorite.
Each time the same, while each time quite different.
Dressed in his suited Sunday best,
though he never minded sitting in grass,
The Duke of Yorkshire pulls on his mustache
and considers how he got to Paris.
As a child back home, he dreamt of this life
Yet yearns for Yorkshire pudding, secretly.
The murmur of the bustle behind fades
as he pays no mind, eyes locked on ripples.
The Duke adjusts his town-weight silk top hat
and rests his chin upon his cane, content.
Smoke from the left drifts by and takes him back
to his late father and his pipe, in York.
He breathes in and lets out the longest sigh,
Longing for his own clay pipe at this point.
“I came to study art, to find myself.”
He thinks, eyes locked on the oars and the sails.
“I should acquire a boat, it’s not too late.”
The bachelor ponders his seaworthiness.
The rest of the crowd seems staunch and uncaring
of the colors, smells, and sounds that The Duke
was so drawn to this place by, years ago.
Waves of nostalgia blend with new senses
and for a moment, the island is new.
He will return here, same time next Sunday
and most likely have the same thoughts again.
This is his peace, this is his choice. Paris.
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