Here in Vincennes, I am l’etranger –

a foreign pedestrian crossing the street,

looking as conspicuous as an American.

I wouldn’t blend in, even if I strolled the sidewalk

waving a baguette in my hand

like a drum major’s baton.

The streets I cross are no wider

than my driveway at home.

watching cars pass by, some as small

as two motorcycles strapped together,

I realize that I haven’t seen a single

gas-gulping SUV.

This is a vacation indeed.

I wonder, what would happen to

one of those behemoths over here?

Frustrated, trundling wheels and axles,

scraping and sparking over the curbs,

unable to make that hairpin turn

without knocking over a wall,

or at least a flower box,

screaming and bellowing at the outrage

of this undersized, gas-pinched

part of the world called Europe,

it would finally succumb,

turned over on its side,

doors heaving like lung-stretched ribs,

fossil-fuel juices leaking out

to the street, where they would be

lapped up by a grateful pack

of Morris Minors.

01/18/2004

Posted on 01/18/2004
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt