Mornings here, I put my French on: underthings, white blouse, a tight skirt.
I dress letter by letter, I wear my accent comme ci.

To the fleuriste, I am charming
with my child-language-syntax,
the way I knock over with my draped elbows
glass shelves and vases, shatter
imperfect verbs.
Astonishingly, I know the word jonquille;
with azaliée, I get lucky.

Having said my piece, I clutch a madness of daffodils,
a profundity of azaleas. The bouquet rustles
and down the wet stairs, my shoes and skirt
click and swish. On the Metro
everyone is silent.