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.