Yoan makes hearts out of centimes
Carving copper curves
With a kindness that unnerves

‘Come back later
It’ll be beautiful’, he’s a perfectionist
I nod, dutiful

He isn’t wrong
Precisionist, precisely placed
Each metal disc

An echo
Of his calloused wrist
I promise him

A photo
For two years he’s been
He tells me

Making metal hearts
On boulevard Montparnasse
Under the tree
Next to the creperie
Far from

His Romania
His patria, his homeland
Hoping for a helping hand

What would he do
With a photo?