My Fathers Geography

　　by Afaa M. Weaver

　　 I was parading the Cote d'Azur，

　　 hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes，

　　 following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo

　　 to the hill that overlooks the ville.

　　 A woman fed me p？té in the afternoon，

　　 calling from her stall to offer me more.

　　 At breakfast I talked in French with an old man

　　 about what he loved about America-the Kennedys.

　　 On the beaches I walked and watched

　　 topless women sunbathe and swim，

　　 loving both home and being so far from it.

　　 At a phone looking to Africa over the Mediterranean，

　　 I called my father， and， missing me， he said，

　　 "You almost home boy. Go on cross that sea！"