Quebec City

Quebec City sprawls
in the gentle grip
of another May fog.
Le Chat Grippe
has a place set for you.
We were visiting the
old city on a senior trip.

After an afternoon wandering
and souvenir shopping,
we had reservations for dinner and culture.
The only thing I could pronounce
on the menu was sole fish.
Fillets swam in
butter, lemon juice, dill,
bread crumbs,
and a pound of sea salt.

If I never again partake
of such a dish,
nor see it as an option
among French made delicacies,
I shall be happy.
There was something about
grease and fish and lemon
topped with dollops of fresh cream
that made my stomach crave Burger King,
instead of foreign cuisine.

"Tu n'aimez pas les poissons
parce qu'il ne nage pas."
No he didn't swim,
as I idly pushed him around
in his plate bound pool.
It was only the first day
of the trip.
Already I was bored
with guided tours and strange accents.
I wandered out of the restaurant,
toward Le Chateau Frontenac,
with a half pack of cigarettes,
and no plan to rejoin my classmates soon.

It was 6 p.m.,
a dark haired girl leaned
on the stone facade of the hotel.
I had found some excitement.
Quebec City sprawls
in the gentle grip
of another May fog.