Going on a literary walking tour

Around the place de Pantheon, sun swept
to Valvin, the dome, La Rotande.
Where are all the writers?

Surely not all these people
who, perhaps, also look
for writers

as I do.
Will they be young?
Sporting skate boards, interesting
facial hair.

Middle aged matriarchs,
peroxided, leaving puffs of rouge
on sipped noisettes?

No. The writers have escaped,
gathering at Armenian tavernas
or skulking over a Moroccan
peppermint-tea sunset

hiding from me, who has paid
good money to see them.