Glimpes from Toulouse

You button up a cuddle of loud winter coats
amidst the papier-mâché planets of a yellow classroom 

and later lie in bed with a hot water pouch,
ginger tea, and an audiobook’s whisper to recharge.

Yellow and purple carrots plucked on Sundays
from the stalls of marché Saint-Aubin, now back home,

new red slippers slipped on small feet—j’aime ça.
You dispense mint forehead kisses daily, requested

s’il vous plait by Léopold and Capucine and Jean.
I receive hints of mid-day walks along le canal du Midi, 

the spire of the basilique in foreign blue, generous. 
Modern art offerings by enfants terribles smile on your wall

and new muscles spasm as your body adjusts
to early morning fog and the lilt of À la claire fontaine.

You even promise me chocolatines and madeleines
as tasteful as Les 400 coups and Breathless, but until then

so many more white board sketches of space
shuttles whose lone voyage few students comprehend.