If you look at a map of Normandy,
You will see roads and channels – no valise.
It was a strange discomfiture to know;
Scant help would be forthcoming, few police,
Just one lone woman, who was sweet and kind.
But she could never carry
All that I had on my mind.
Pretend you stood beside a roadside inn,
And watched the passers-by. How is there space
And time enough to count the atrophied,
Or see the covert stories in each face?
A map, a woman, searching through my dread —-
Without a clue to comfort, save
That one lone white
Bedspread
To share is human:
