Romania, she came from, on a plane,
To prosperous Toronto. Only nine,
She knew enough of poverty and pain
To occupy a month of show-and-tell.
She learned to boat and bike, forgot to pine,
But, when a baby came to fill the nest
Her ‘daddy’ said, “too bad we didn’t gel”
And sent her packing, back to Bucharest.
At twenty, she returned, her tearful, “why?”
Projected though a barely opened door.
“Because you were unhappy,” the reply,
“And missed your home.” — “But I was just a kid!”
A scrawled-on piece of paper hit the floor.
“You want to talk, you call me.” When she tried,
A lady who was paid to, by the grid,
Said, “number out of service; call denied.”