Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Paris, 1983

In my hands is a pain aux raisins,
The wax paper sticky and sweet.
I climb the darkened staircase.
The door opens to a midday of newspapers
On a dining room table.
A lull in a week day.
My mother tongue smiles at me.
I hear French, staccato and harsh,
And the fracturing of English.
I am at home away from home.

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