Across from me, an ugly couple holds one another.
The boy's thin hair, tied back uncomfortably,
Reveals the puffed cheeks of an old woman.
His smooth skin undermines the age his height would suggest.
Small wire glasses frame shallow eyes,
Which he uses to stare lovingly at his modest treasure.
The girl is not much prettier,
Her face pulled together around the nose.
Her black roots push out her hap-hazard dye-job
To awkward lengths about her low cheek-bones.
Her body is misshapen, so as to be unattractive;
Not, however, enough to be interesting.
He exits at Volontaires, blowing an awkward kiss towards her.
She exits minutes later at Falguiere, looks about impatiently, then shuffles off.
I can imagine they believe others are looking at them with envy,
I can imagine they believe we purchase their pretense, and pine for a love like theirs.
Little do they know, we are looking on with earnest,
Wondering who will be the first to tell them they are fooling no one.
The blanket is not a cape.
The broomstick, not a horse.