Hey, Frankie, I got to Brussels after all,
give or take a half a century
of waters under no bridge - and still recall
that happy ship of returning refugees:
Chic as always in a veiled black hat
tilted over one eye, your mother resumes
her Belgian-matron status with éclat
Your father, who despaired of seeing home
again, sports an imperturbable smile…
You, tied like a captive to confetti tiers,
lift a drowning arm. For you exile,
the retching vortex of remembered fear,
starts now. What ending could seem happier
than growing up a New York teenager?

        *

They stare at the sun-flecked Hudson opening out,
...