He is French
He is watching the light flicker;
soft sputter of finger taps -

he is on his phone,
speaking a language no
one else understands but me,

and my hands are in my pockets.

He is not American, wandering
via latte, plaid shirt, ponytail,
soft light, murmur

he is French, enacts with accent,
and the shade of my moodring
mistakes itself for the ebb of steam
from the giggling barista's
aghast from the sultry noon
of my eyebrow,

we stand together, move apart,
smile, waves as I depart.