Non, je ne regrette rien

I wish you had seen the waif

in  her hand-me-down Elsa gown,

arms wide, singing “Let It Go.” 

She knew the words, this petite chanteuse,

having watched Frozen a dozen times.

I envied  her  joie de vivre, her naivete.

“Let It Go!”  What good advice.

I’ve tried it once or twice.

If I could sing and I can’t, 

I’d like to be Piaf.  Don a black dress.

Go to a casino.  Light a cigarette.

Sing, “Non, je ne regrette rien.”

Alas, ma cherie, I’m no Piaf.

I have regrets, and not just cigarettes.