Paris, alone. She cannot sleep. In the dark
she dresses in navy blue, pretends she
is French, a native speaker whose tumbling
words are now her words, everything known departs.

She passes market vendors who nod, as if she
belonged that morning, on the foggy bank of the Seine.
At the boulangier, a baker swathed in powdered white
hands her a croissant — hot, golden, in crisp, pink linen.

She breaks it open — steaming, flaky layers
of pastry warm her hands and face. She murmurs
merci to no one, sips café au lait —
frothy swirls in a rough, glazed, earthenware bowl.

Later she will spend hours at the Louvre,
oblivious to time, to others — gazing at
the Mona Lisa...

We could be sisters, you and I, though there are
centuries between us. We could shop together —
exchange clothes. I think I have your smile, or

you have mine. Your smile has puzzled men for
five hundred years, and wouldn't you laugh out
loud, now, over your low-fat latté?

She writes her thoughts, recording every detail.
Dreams in French of flower shops, of Notre-Dame
and palaces; fromageries that offer puple
cheese; café waiters in elegant black with

sunlight smiles; the Seine; of being kind to
tourists — especially tourists all alone — whose
lives might change in an instant by a unknown
language and culture they are brave enough to own.