Help, Help, Help

Drawn to Paris, 1939
by the scent of something silky.

Sucked slowly up the Seine,
into the city’s soft sheets.

David’s thirst for life
dried the bistros and night clubs.

He was a proper writer now,
His hand hurried by inspiration.

He never stopped to question the fact:
so many Poles in Paris all of a sudden.

It finally hit him in a letter.
Orders from his own Fuhrer. Father.

A war had started in Europe.
There was no ignoring it now.

David’s calling changed.
Before he could kiss Paris goodbye

he was off to Singapore, a Signalman.
His hurried hand tapping out,

Help, help, help.