Poetry, it doesn’t speak to me

I often have to tap it
upon its shoulder,
before it turns around
and chats freely.

I recall one such time
it did reveal itself,
it became a tattered flyer
on a Parisian lamp post.

How strange.
Why Paris?

It read
(loosely translated of course)
“For one night only,
an extravaganza of words,
bring your own leg,
and meet me here.”

I assumed by leg the translation
faltered somewhat.

It also didn’t exactly state which night,
what time or what the significance
of the lamp post was.

Or for that matter, who ‘me’ was.

Some things are the same
in every country, cryptic.

When I did return,
a little dog stopped by,
sniffed my leg and
wrote something post-modern.

It can go that way sometimes.

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