I haven’t had that European vacation—
the one where you sling a backpack over
your shoulder and wash your underwear in
a sink and wonder why the outlets look
so funny and where to change your money
when your passport is stamped at the rail
crossings. I’ve never had that vacation
when I eat cheese like the French and don’t
gain a single pound and drink wine
but don’t become addicted. That time and place
where my flat chest is beautiful and the boys
think I’m sexy just for being there and having
the courage to smile and say hello in a foreign tongue.
Now Europe uses Euros and there are
cameras everywhere in England and
someone sits and eats crisps in a cubby
and watches you with your skirt hiked to your
waist humping the Parisian against a chain-link fence.