I'm about as French
as a year without
going on strike,
which is to say
not at all.
But I would fake it,
if only to take full advantage
of their bakeries.
Thick, crusty bread, spread
with cool white butter.
The mille feuille, flaking
into a trillion pieces with
the soft sweetness of cream
and a haze of vanilla.
Croissants,
airy as the moon for
which they're named.
I have one waiting for me downstairs.
I'll dip warm segments in raspberry jam,
smear them with butter, and eat them
with milky coffee, as I read a book
about changelings and look out
on a brioche-colored morning.
