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Out of a thousand strangers
to ask directions to the Métro,
I choose the woman who tells me
to repeat, please, then deigns
to give a one-minute lecture.
Over four-fifths makes no sense,
but not to look like a twentysomething
first-timing it across the city
I tell her merci, and take a left.
January hisses at my heels. The French
language hisses from strangers’ mouths.
A droit, a gauche, then right in front
of me a movie theatre marquee displays
its matinée—Truffaut’s L’Enfant Sauvage.
Inside, black and white Itard talks
like my old Learn French The Fun Way
thirty-three-and-a-third record
playing at forty-five revolutions per.
I keep wishing for a needle
I can lift to replay his words and give
my ears a hand—sooty Victor found
in forest, yes, sponge baths by candlelight,
okay, wheelbarrow rides in the field—
but no closeup can tell me
what Itard’s scrawling in that book
and can’t he slow his voice-over
as he stares out the window?
Two seats away someone starts
a certified cry-a-thon when
a smile tickles Victor’s face.
Itard does the alphabet shuffle,
Mme. Guérin sets the table,
Victor sips his bowl of warm soup.
I’m the cretin in the bucket seat,
rubber-necking the room for cues.
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