<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html charset=us-ascii"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);" class="">Song: The Kiss</span><br class=""><div style="text-decoration: underline;" class=""><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);" class=""><br class="webkit-block-placeholder"></span></div><p class=""><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);" class="">We were walking through<br class=""> A department store in Paris,<br class="">Escaping the rain,<br class=""> The sort of French rain<br class="">That changes in intensity<br class=""> If you look at it,<br class="">Then changes back if you don't.<br class=""> You went to lingerie,<br class="">And I to electronics,<br class=""> And then we met again. It was there<br class="">That you noticed them, in furnishings,<br class=""> Relaxing on a couch, his arm<br class="">Draped around her shoulder.<br class=""> She pecked him on the cheek.<br class="">He didn't seem to notice.<br class=""> Practicing for marriage,<br class="">You said, a bit too wryly<br class=""> I thought, then stared at them<br class="">With You. He was pompadoured,<br class=""> Italian, rough and beautiful,<br class="">With muscles so prominent<br class=""> They seemed to be tattooed,<br class="">And you must have felt a twinge<br class=""> Moving up your throat<br class="">To your face, for it settled<br class=""> Into a smile, half adoration,<br class="">Half resignation. And she, Italianate,<br class=""> Shapely as that ivory statue<br class="">Pygmalian called "my virgin beauty,"<br class=""> With hair so long and black<br class="">I could almost see myself<br class=""> Reflected in it, and behind me<br class="">You watching me watching<br class=""> Her small breasts move<br class="">Beneath her black t-shirt.<br class=""> Then on we went, you to where<br class="">The silk scarves were,<br class=""> All the rage that year,<br class="">And I to toys to see<br class=""> What passed for toys those days,<br class="">And then we met again,<br class=""> By the escalator, and out<br class="">The revolving doors we went,<br class=""> Hand in hand, for this was Paris,<br class="">Where even the middle-aged<br class=""> Will behave like young lovers<br class="">In the rain, waiting for bad weather<br class=""> To bring them to their youth again.<br class="">And there they were, standing<br class=""> In the rain that hadn't changed<br class="">For an hour. They were kissing,<br class=""> Their tongues wrestling<br class="">In that eternal battle<br class=""> No one wins or loses.<br class="">His hand was on her breast,<br class=""> Cupping it; her hand on top of his,<br class="">As if to keep it there forever<br class=""> Were a commitment they'd just now taken on.<br class="">And you said, laughing, <br class=""> If you let me kiss him<br class="">I'll let you kiss her!<br class=""> Then we set out again,<br class="">Hand in hand, thirty years married,<br class=""> Across the busy Seine,<br class="">And then I was the one laughing,<br class=""> And you, I thought for a moment<br class="">You were crying, <br class=""> But it was only the rain in Paris,<br class="">Relentless and unchanging. <br class=""></span></p><p class=""><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);" class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- Steve Orlen</span></p></body></html>