Where the long street began,
or perhaps it was where it ended,
shops were modest
and bars had sawdust on floors,
women only beautiful after nine at night;
boarding houses had threadbare lino
and fly shit on wishfully looked into mirrors.

Further up the street
it got posh bartenders
wore red uniforms
and men in restaurants were exceedingly gallant towards ladies,
rose every time one of them got up
thereby announcing for the whole world
the lady wanted a pee.

Met French speaking Sophie there,
she was a waitress
and her shift had just ended,
together we walked to where houses were patrician,
black limos gleamed
and trees very leafy,
but there was a silence in the air
so refined that we didn’t dare to giggle.

Back down where shops were unassuming
I bought her a ring
and we’re engaged.
Celebrated in a nightclub
where a Doris Day look-alike sang,
“When I was just a little boy,
I asked my mother!”
We swooned
held hands
and chaste kissed.

My ship sailed next morning,
as they must,
promised to write
and be back in a month’s time,
never made it though
and grew older.
Can’t remember Sophie’s clearly
only that her hands were soft
her bosom firm
and the street we walked so very, very long.