On my way to an outdoor table,
espresso, newspaper, notebook
in hand, I catch sight
of a sweet-looking young man
hunched over a fluorescent-green
plastic Playschool computer,
the kind, he confirms,
developed for kids in impoverished countries.
“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” I ask in response
to his mild accent. “Nein.”
“Where...?” “Sweden,” he answers.
“Welcome,” I say, extending my hand
and offering my name.”Simon,”
he says and grips my hand
so sincerely that if I were a woman
I’d be pregnant now



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No mustard!!!??? For shame....
