I make highways around her legs
until she shoos me away under the table
where the black and white tiles become streets
and the chairs, giant skyscrapers.
I invent gravity-defying automobiles
that climb up the chair-legs to the seat
and race with dare-devilry around cushioned edges.
My pulse quickens when I hear her
as she hums along to the leather-clad radio
perched on the window sill above the sink;
singing harmonies with Paul McCartney
in a language my four year old ears don’t know.
“Michelle, ma belle,
Sont des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble,
Tres bien ensemble.”
It is the first time I remember being in love.