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！"