Parsley Days
She likes escargot, dripping,as he watches, fascinated
he has the pale man's appetite
where excesses are hidden
under antimacassars
in a parlour only used for the dead.
She like copious quantities
then licks her fingers,
runs a tongue over teeth
they wink at him,
reminds him how he
forgot to floss
when she beguiled
She likes excess and smiles
he does gravitas
memories of how his mother
buttoned up his coat
where now, in the Place Madeleine,
she proffers escargot
in what looks like an eyelash curler
but what surprises him most
is he lets her feed him;
afterwards they soak up the ambience
while she whispers
and waves as she weaves
a figure in a cream coat,
a second hand fedora adorned
with parsley in its band.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2015-04-12 at 18:18
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