The movers were uncertain
when she asked them
to push it against the wall. Madame,
it will make it difficult for Monsieur
to sit beside you, especially
when you have the giant ficus
right there, see, in the heavy pot.
Madame, you will have to play
alone. Oh, she knows the night’s
a hazard: heavy wallpaper,
candles melting down,
the snapping gusts she makes
with every page-turn. Perhaps
in the end, it will conflagrate,
and she’ll be scared and sorry.
Fled queen of yet another fiery
moment. Not now, though.
Pale, flocked and blue.
The counter-melody, the corner
score, the solitude.
