It was our third date, today,

we dated, I think it was a date,

we had lunch, we talked,

we argued. I thought about

falling in love with you,

considered that you might


never fall for me, ordered

bacon and eggs on croissant,

the same as you and knowingly

sipped water as you spoke

about Villon. I know that you

are French. Is this why


we do not understand each other?

I thought the French were only

rude in France. To your credit,

you handled English well,

almost expertly, as if your visa

weren’t about to expire. Still,


it felt like we were butting

heads; I do not mean to imply

the birthmark on your forehead,

I could surely love it one day.

I even said our talk was like

poking each other in the eye.


You understand eyes and how

I looked away when you spoke.

It was not as if Court Street

was so intriguing that I just

had to look out the window.

No. I listened to your voice


and pictured someone else

I’d like to know, reading me love

poems over coffee and juice.

No luck. I looked back and

found you staring at your plate.


It cheered me up. Later,

we walked in circles enjoying

the sunlight after so many

days of rain. The rain

was better; it was a wise hand

that kept us apart.