It was a French kind of day.
I wanted a noodle breakfast
Clogged with translucent
Dumplings
To do as they do in Rome.
She worried it would make her
Stomach turn,
Petitioning for coffee, eggs.
So we went to some approximation
Of a Gallic cafe where the chairs
Were glued to the floor and
Cafe Latte came in polyester -
Ate latex omelette in bread that
Would have embarrassed
The makers of Mighty White '
These thoughts I kept to myself
As I looked down at her lovely hand
Sun-spotted and familiar.
Under the formica table
I closed my own around a
A brittle stick of straw -
A two-humped cartoon shadow
Loping away behind her
On the Parisian-Chinese wall.
