M.Y.W.I.F.E.

Suitcases shifted wildly
from one side of the bus
to another. Ari and I
grabbed what we could
while we held onto the bus's
crossbars and strap-poles as if
riding a rollercoaster gone insane
on cocaine or methamphetamine.

The bus driver in Calais forgot
that he was a bus driver, instead
he'd incarnated Sterling Moss
racing down gnarled streets
of Monaco, mocking gravity
at every turn.

And what of all those bags?
I had two, Ari one, and
someone with the initials
M.Y.W.I.F.E had brought along,
on this, our first foray as a family
to France, seven large travel bags
that Ari and I had to chase while
they slid up and down the bus aisle
like hyperactive children
on sugar highs -- seven bags
of "absolutely essential" stuff that
made my son and I commemorate
the martyrdom of St. Joan of Arc
on that smokey day in May, 1431.