Matt Roberts
Hair well combed, moisturized face,
looking and smelling of a fragrance from Italy.
Combined with my features, I am
the perfect mother’s son. The image of me.
I have images of you in Paris somewhere,
a leisurely breakfast, croissant and coffee,
possibly writing or painting before
a gentleman escorts you home.
But then, that’s not the picture
played out for you, my mentor.
You were snared by the skilled,
sly hunt’s man and his peacock’s
perfect military uniform and you
were secretly given your family.
You once cried for what could have been,
and it shook my world at 5 years old.
But now here I am, almost as old
as you were then, that morning
cooking our breakfast in tears,
as my older sister comforted you.
Sitting here in Asia, I think of you.
I write all I’ve done, ask how you are and
address it to your Paris apartment,
but of course, it will never be sent.
