again and yet again, and there
she was, like in the story book,
bosom and all and looking,
really staring straight at me.
An instant bond had thus been formed,
and I was chosen, (it had to happen) ,
my first five years had just been finished
and all the learnings that lay the foundation
of one’s whole life had filtered in,
through lacey drapes, in midday naps.
And no one saw how I allowed my pupils
to feast not on her eyes but on the decolleté,
which put my mother’s Munich dirndl ruffles to shame.
Her piercing eyes, in love with only me,
now that they’d found the one from destiny,
warmed all my blood and I held on to
my sturdy Lederhosen, for steady thoughts
and guidance, which was badly needed.
I really loved my father, on that day at least,
he had remarked that I had chosen wisely,
it seemed that he was certain that a boy
whose eyes were glued to only Mona Lisa
would go so far in life and he was thrilled.
It matters little, what others feel or think,
in trance I floated through the Arc de Triomphe,
took in the Moulin Rouge, and then the Tower,
such poppycock, just local petty treasures,
my heart was heavy with a boy’s first love.