They sat down at a table
in a restaurant near their home.
They both ordered eggs and coffee.
For her, two, sunny side up,
and a large coffee with cream and sugar.
For him, one, his coffee black.

“Only here can a factory worker become a governor,” she said.
“And a girl from the projects become an astronaut,” she added.
“The way I see it,” he said, “one loser somehow makes it,
and we all have to live with false hope.”

The violin and the red tree
remind me of the confidence
of French women.

The look is sharp
the air is fresh
and sexy is not measured by breast size.

Rich taste is testimonial
depth is a variable
and intimidation is the currency franca
where making a point, taking a stand
are part of the collective bargain.

National politics
and the dullness in the bedroom
go hand in hand in conversations
at dinner tables
triggering powerful, profound aspirations.

Joie de vivre is a national pastime.

Cinnamon, chicken, couscous, chickpeas, and raisins.
Steam greets your face. Warmth at first. Then heat.
Aura–rich of mixed flavors.

My earliest memory of this dish may have been when I was seven.
At home, my father was the cook. My mother did everything else.
Having couscous for lunch is a comfort, down the memory lane.

The cabbage stands high as a mountain protecting its citizens.
The round head is cut into four pieces. Served triumphantly.
Zucchini, the green stretched tongue of many love affairs.

It greets your lips with cautious heat. Makes your throat cringe.
The heat is held inside it with passion like a prison guard
in charge of a ruthless criminal.

Carrots beg to differ. An orange opposition. They accentuate,
add color. Turmeric. Salt. Pepper and double that in ginger.
The mystic ingredient is not my father’s magic hands.

Nor is it his lucky strikes at delivering savor. It is simply olive oil,
which turns any ordinary dish into a giant and adds character.
Thirty five years later, I stand in the kitchen recalling an act

I watched almost weekly every winter. I now am a father
tormented with a heavy legacy. Eager to please my son, guests.
I disturb the neighborhood with a frightening smell

that makes even the most civil stomach roar.
My son will still feast on couscous for a while. Then dismiss it
for many years, and later come back to it with pressing urgency.

Maybe an intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I wish he would remember his mother likes hers with tomatoes,

potatoes, pumpkin, and she swore her favorite was served
with fish instead. He knows the act by heart. The delight of
preparing and serving couscous. I bet he’d happily play my part.