She said she was Frances, like the countries.
“Like… the countries?”
“Like the countries. Like France – but a bunch of them.”
“Oh,” I said, as if I understood, “Nice to meet you.”
It was.

She played her sad songs,
because “Sad songs are what make me feel
– and when I’m happy, I don’t want to write.”
Her sad songs felt like she wore older clothes
but she was very young.

She seemed like she was from only one country, too.
I can’t say where.
She left kinda quickly.
Maybe she had to cross a couple borders.