Irene

Last stop, Montréal.
Had our lunch, Moroccan. 
Hopped next door for mousse.

"It's a strange paradise." 
"Beach House," I uttered. 
Strange for a pâtisserie, no?

You told me of the first time. 
You thought you heard
The shopkeep said
"Bitch House."

But why would they call themselves 
"Bitch House?"

We chuckled.
We ran out of mousse!

Time to go.
This was our last, mon coeur.
Tomorrow, Toronto
To our beds and lovers.

"It's a strange paradise."
"It's a strange paradise." 
"It's a strange paradise..."

I wrote this remembering the last time I was in Montréal.

Some parts are fictional, but the mousse and the song definitely aren’t.