by Nico Mara-McKay


Once I was in Paris
sitting by the Seine
listening to old men
play their accordions
singing folk songs
tipping their hat for coins.
You had gone for a walk.

Twice we were in Quebec
Hull, Montreal; places where
speaking French was (non)optional
eating in Italian restaurants
climbing Mont Royal, and where
driving was a thing of danger.
You turned right at a stop light.

Three times, more, we’ve
flown back to the old country
compacted by Thomas Cook
migrated north with the
staid and monolingual we
kept calm and carried on.
You were home.