Arrival in Montpellier

Keyed up after a sleepless flight,

we stared at the Place de la Comédie:

the stone Graces glowing pink at night;

the tram, sleek palms, and brasserie;

the guitarist cycling through “La vie

en rose,” “Imagine,” and “Yesterday”

as the carousel shrieked deliriously ...

We’d made our elegant getaway.

That year, there was no shame in bailing:

each day the newsfeed seethed and churned;

the air was plagued, the state was failing;

we moved to the land of the unconcerned.

Mom said she’d die before I returned.

That was one of those things she’d say.

Slowly our wider circle learned

we’d made an elegant getaway.

Later came frantic tests that found

a “large dark mass” Mom wouldn’t speak

to me about, and one tightly wound

last call as I paced the bargain-chic

flat—and the news, my childish squeak

(“Just now?”), and the plague-imposed delay

in scurrying home ... But that first week,

we’d made the elegant getaway.

My tram card still has two more fares.

Remember I’d sing that on the stairs?

We’d made our elegant getaway.