everything french

i go into the little French store,
where everything
is French.

a bell rings when you open the door.

the place is overflowing with
cups, dishes, towels,
stuff

my mother would love. i go slow
so as to not
break anything.

one sneeze could bring the place
crashing down.
i spot an apron with a chicken
on it,

but it's not my size. a metal
statue of
the Eiffel tower. ninety dollars.

what would that be in francs, or is
it euros now?

there's a basket of fake bread,
paper mache or something.

rolls and baquettes, they look
real, shiny as if lathered with butter.
i pick up the baquette
and think about how it would make
a nice sandwich.

lots of wine books, wine openers,
wine corks. wine wine wine.

there's a calendar of paris in the spring.
i open it up hoping
fifi or michelle
might be in it lounging
around in some café wearing
fishnet stockings. nope.

i wander around
until the woman in back

whispers loudly, can i help you
with anything? then i leave.