After lunch, the Sunday strollers boil
on the pavement, two miles from Belleville,
which may be the upcoming quartier
now that fashion’s priced out the Marais.
Stretch-silk jeans, antiqued American
patchwork quilts (hand-sewn, but in Taiwan)
rag-doll black girls and rag-doll Uncle Sams
are sold in what still was the Hammam
Saint-Paul last year. There, Jewish matrons, girt
with goosefat, had their nails done, had dessert
and some discreet attention to their hair,
had tea and time to gossip in lounge chairs
on steaming tiles beside the pool, or nap.
There, granddaughters and foreigners swam laps,
sweated, were flogged with twigs, were rubbed and rolled
over, kneaded and pummelled, doused with cold
water, to join them, panting, on the tiles,
or risk the verdict of the eight-foot scales.