L'Americain

I watch him across a mahogany moor
In a little café where the ambiance is the bouillabaisse.

As I watch him order breakfast
Café, s'il vous plaît'
I know it's black, and no sugar.
I imagine his pale American father made him,
With precise words
Into an appropriate emotional distance.

I picture my life as it would be
if I were in his space.
I'd look at the city from a luxury apartment
and scoop in fistfuls of domestic exhaust.
I'd shake the grief from my farmer's back,
I'd shake the dregs from my grape stained shoes.
My eyes would be suburban pools
My brow unburdened, a flat screen TV;
Living unspecific and clean.
And I'd wring the honesty from my toiled fingers.

On the way out, I shake his hand--it's like a lion's tongue--
J'aime votre patrie I say, and leave.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...