bistro downstairs from our twenty years ago apartment
in the sixteenth in the early dawning hours of trash
collection and big burly men holding a demitasse
the size of their fingers and downing caffeine like
vodka. And bellowing va te faire foutre at honking
drivers demanding they unblock the one-car-wide street
and move their green trash vans. The double espresso
smells like the rain that spring, when I gave birth to
my third and listened to Ella Fitzgerald sing about
spring till I knew it by heart. The caffeine in my hands
feels like home. And not. Like the Ella song I already
forgot but can still hum as I sit in a French café
in my new Mediterranean home. On a cobblestone path
wide enough for two maybe three bicycles smeared
with bougainvillaea in a winter waiting for spring.






