My French teacher once assigned me to memorize the poem, “Déjeuner du Matin,” over the
weekend. I scanned the lines: it was about a woman looking at a man, watching him finish his
coffee and leave the café. My teacher passionately explained the poem was about lost love, that
the poet’s simple diction like coffee, milk, spoon and plate highlighted a feeling of loneliness
that contrasted with the couple’s previous intimacy.
I secretly laughed to myself. Apparently the French are so sentimental they can find
romantic connotations in any subject.
Back in my room, I read the poem again. “He poured milk in his coffee.” “He put the
coffee cup down.” Then, suddenly, the woman was crying with her head in her hands. In just a
few lines the poem had gone from milk and sugar to tragedy. How, I asked myself, could any
