The Goddess and the Old Roué

remembering the old chansons, humming
                     the music hall tunes of youth, positively
          dapper in his gold cravat: the three months'

rest must have done him good (why, it's almost
        indecent how his
                                      potency returns): Monsieur

rises early now, snips
                         outlines in the frost—chimneys,
          stove pipes, gables, trees—then

melts the rest, leaving white silhouettes he peddles
                           to the girls for two francs
          each (how he leers at them, the old roué)

equinox soon: an erotic sigh or two from
                                                          the goddess, a
          blandishment of rain, and the

                       old don juan will paint her toes
     with jonquils: one thrum of her lute and
                                the angels of summer will dive like

dolphins from their white carousels and
                  garland her with
            flowers veiling and unveiling (how his

      mustache twitches, his old eyes shine): o when
                                    Mademoiselle Flora
             does her fan dance in the park—then

oh, then!


The Comstock Review, Spring/Summer 2006, 27.