I would call you by name
if I knew it.
For now, you are the woman
who sits
reading magazines.
I wonder,
while I sip my coffee,
if the reason you only buy
cold drinks here
is because the coffee
is better back in France.
I come here just as often as you.
Sometimes you're with friends.
One time,
you began a conversation
with the man sitting next to you.
Before that,
I couldn't place
your accent.
He was Hatian.
You talked about a lot,
but I think I was the only one there
who knew
that you were discussing beer.
You fascinate me.
I wonder what kind of
little girl
you were.
Which province are you from?
Did you ever
live in Paris?
What's your name?
I could ask it
in French,
but I have a feeling
I never will.
So woman,
with the short red hair,
black coat,
large glasses,
from France...
This poem is for you.
