Poem of the Week: 1963 by Meg Cox | Books
The house is in Chatou, in the southwestern suburbs of Paris.
It has real French tree lined streets and beetles
hovering noisily under a fretted iron lamp post.
The kitchen is three times the size of our kitchen,
and foreign, adorned with paintings. There are three windows
all without mullions but they are not doors.
It’s dark outside and I’m home alone, sitting
on the rubbed pine table with my bare feet on the dresser
because I paint my nails and I drink real coffee.
My book Bonjour Tristesse (in French) is open next to me.
I turned on the radio hoping to hear the first Beatles album.
There is Bach. I fiddle with the dial.
After more solemn music, an announcement
President Kennedy is dead.
Above the radio is a sketch of a Picasso sparrow on a red stand.
I know now that it was not an original.
I was kissed by a Frenchman the week before.
I’m 19 and this is just the beginning of my life.