Incandescent among the promenade du midi,
darting through flocks of wannabe glitterati.
Near Cafe de Paris, I spot them, looking
like long leggy birds on the glistening quay.

Tired and crabby, we’ve pulled into town,
graze on club sandwiches, tres cher, mon amour.
Sipping rose of the regionand trying to blend,
I spy on the roam by the yacht dotted strand.

~ One skitters by, swaying precariously.

Perched high on spiked heels and scantily clad,
a flamingo pink bombshell with hoary tan legs.
She’s platinum hair and creped skin drapery.
Ensigns flutter as she drifts by huge sloops.

~ Another lopes through the mortal throngs.

Glossy old egret,rake thin legs, blanc et noir.
Giant sunglasses camouflage against the late hour.
Lagerfeld short shorts barely cover her droop.
Souvenirs sound tracks her rhythmic lope.

Thirty years may have passed since these femme ancienne
danced under starlight with kings, sheiks and princes,
perhaps sixty since first fanning their flames.
They hold secrets safe behind heavy gold chains.

~ A purple blond heron struts past our table pour deux.

laring at those daring to meet her fierce stare.
With hair piled high, long rouged beak in the air,
she is queen of the port, all hauteur and bravado.
Her gaze burns holes in my thoughts provencal.

Once port side pals of Bardot and McQueen,
do they still quaff champagne, smoke non filtre Gitanes,
rub shoulders with jet setters, still spread their legs,
read Proust and Verlaine to their lovers in bed?

Captivated by these preening dames vielle,
I crave their audaciousness, their indifference, their sheen.
These old birdsfly higher, not one of us.
Unforgettable ladies of this St.Tropez scene.

-Sasha Case