the American version this morning didn’t taste as good
as the French version did yesterday in Paris even if
baguette is the French word for bread.
in Paris, the sun splattered across the row of
café chairs lined up facing the street,
back home, the goldfish are begging to be fed,
as usual; I need to get back to work,
the scale claims that French patisseries and wine have calories.
the tomato plant has tripled in size, Daisy is happy
to see me, it’s good to be home even if my bread is not
a French baguette served at a Paris café .