by Afaa M. Weaver
I was parading the Cote d'Azur，
hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes，
following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo
to the hill that overlooks the ville.
A woman fed me p？té in the afternoon，
calling from her stall to offer me more.
At breakfast I talked in French with an old man
about what he loved about America—the Kennedys.
On the beaches I walked and watched
topless women sunbathe and swim，
loving both home and being so far from it.
At a phone looking to Africa over the Mediterranean，
I called my father， and， missing me， he said，
"You almost home boy. Go on cross that sea！"
I was parading the Cote d'Azur，
hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes，
following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo
to the hill that overlooks the ville.
A woman fed me p？té in the afternoon，
calling from her stall to offer me more.
At breakfast I talked in French with an old man
about what he loved about America—the Kennedys.
On the beaches I walked and watched
topless women sunbathe and swim，
loving both home and being so far from it.
At a phone looking to Africa over the Mediterranean，
I called my father， and， missing me， he said，
"You almost home boy. Go on cross that sea！"