Poésie Noire

Bits gleaned from atop the powdered rungs

and doll tongues strung upon a braided cord clasped

between folds of frilly frue, you come

in the night wrapped in ermine and brooch

over fetching skirt, and you’re tippled on the putty,

and I’d sure dig it, but not so go and such tomorrow:

your face mashed and snorgled, perfect shroud

of your makeup layer permanently Turinning my pillow slip,

eggs flipped over my frypan and my sizzled sausage

already sorted like two stacks of cordwood

dumped from the truck and claimed right there

by a hungry pair of lumber barons. Then me,

apron in the kitchenette, my eggs on the plate

getting cold while you proof and yodel under my shower hose,

juice from a sliced orange creeping your plate

and sogging up your toast while I expect the sound

of your bus at the corner. I’d climb into a barrel

of slowboil tar and leaf through the complete works

of Jacques Derrida as I wait for the slow dissolve.

Still, I’m no Marlowe and you’re less Dietrich

than I’d have you be, no femme fatale echoing pumps

down the wooden hall outside my office door.

You just came in the night a bit better for wear.

I’ll feed you my eggfry though you’d like the hardboil,

and by light of day I’ll drive you home in my Packard

with benchseat and rear-projection stock footage.