It was the kind of news should come
in a light blue envelope with French stamps
and my name and address in cursive, in black ink
or typed on an Olivetti with keys in need of cleaning,

I know this face and which dog is mine.
I’m looking out my window,
the one that holds this morning,
its slanting sun, rain storms, snow.

I’m looking out that window
It’s Saturday morning, beyond the glass

In the darkened kitchen I press down on le piston;
feeling resistance as the screen seines the coffee grounds.

Out on the terrace I take a lawn chair abandoned last night
as we dallied beside the Vézère finishing the Bergerac rosé.

A pair of swans pass by. They nest up river in the reeds
where Eric rents his canoes to people like you and me.