in springtime

at Versailles overshadowed by the grand,
standing felt like crawling and
if I say I felt small, you won't
know I felt smaller than the dame's Maltese,
smaller still. from home I'd bothered
the world to make(try) more little
by traversing more while clinging to
its surface like Imami's paint.

now memory holds only my
miniaturized nine day stint
in Europe, one corner of it, world wilt.
likenesses all of giants I invisible
digressed from expansive vision
or otherwise distressed.
was I the pig of America
or some truer, insignificant anonimi?

stirring finally from the safety of
my hostel, nearby was a café where
I thought to chain myself abstrusely to
my journal, muse on pied terrazzo,
chamois some bon mots under
leaves whose shade kept me small.
without luck -- my heart soared
enormous to touch Paris sky.

— joystjohn