T'es Où?

That's all I heard for 10 minutes straight
one sautéed Brussels morning in the metro
with everyone, their brother, perhaps their dog
peeing on my leg, or at least, it felt that way,
sweat running down inside my trousers

and this one woman who refused to shut up,
pink phone clutched in glittery talons,
cheap earrings swaying in time with her hand
and three offspring exploring the car like raccoons
in my trash, threading through my legs, drooling.

"T'es Où?"
"Where are you?"
as they say in London

Who could say? Possibilities abound.
Prague is nice this time of year.
The local department store had an ad,
two-for-one socks, today only.
North Korea's not half bad.

"T'es Où?"

Not here, obviously, being brighter
and more fortunate than I, who is here,
who can hear you, who wishes he couldn't ,
who wishes North Korean visas
were easier to acquire.

"T'es Où?"

was the last thing I heard, her voice,
her odour, her brood, trailing out the door
into the baked street above, where she
may still be looking for that person's hiding spot,
her children sniffing trees in her wake.