Poitiers In July

I know a place with
cobbled capillary streets that lead
into heart-of-the-city squares,
the kind that beat from 2pm onwards with the 
swell of leisurely lunches and wine by the bottle;
two hour breaks away from back-at-the-office workdays
set back into arches of architecture no
CAD program could program today.

I know a place where the hotel bed sheets
remember me and the wi-fi password
to the seemingly dial up connection
is an amalgamation of letters and numbers
that no mathematician could find their way out of.

I want to be back in the city
that forces my feet to walk
its alleyway-cut-throughs that
lead to new churches only known in the history books,
that lead to tucked away back-of-the-tenement restaurants
where professional waiters attend to your table
with swift feet that stand stable all day, every day,
but then take Sundays off because their gentlemen's-agreement
contract states so.

I want to be back in my city
where parents and their children are
reduced to inked Lowry figures
seeping into the wet page square
that simmers with the late afternoon sun.