Is it really a sign, this bracelet.

As I stood still, the man from Senegal held

my finger and tied the thread, a trick.

What would the Magot think of this?

Would he look down, give cynical look

or would he gladly approach, so used to such things.

His eyes, this time are shaded by dark glasses.

His wooden face gives away nothing.

We drive far away to the steady beat

of the windshield wipers and in the distance

I hear the hum of telephone wires that stretch

their giant arms about the country, carrying

messages of love, of hate.

The signal is jammed: you will not get through.

09/24/05 , A10, Paris , France