Etienne's mother

i see my father

stretched out in the July sun,

his shirt off,

covered in

tanning oil,

his madras shorts on.

it's ninety degrees

in the shade alone.

there's

a Lucky Strike in his hand,

a bottle of

Ballantine beer in the other.

he has the radio on.

sunglasses hide his

blue eyes.

his short hair shines

in the summer light.

he's talking

to the woman

next door, who's hanging

laundry

on the line..

she's French.

i sense there's more to

this scenario than meets

my little boy eyes.