IN
BORDEAUX NO ONE WAITS
He sits in the Paris railway station
reading Le
Monde, puffing on a Galois.
He checks his wristwatch and the station
clock.
A half-hour before the train arrives
to take him to Bordeaux where a shared drink
of good Merlot will toast her dying,
gunshots shatter her goblet, wine and blood
spilled.
He imagines her final regrets.
Did I mention this is pure fiction?
The man is missing from the railway?
He no longer smokes or drinks or harbors
The unexpected twist and turn of murder?
In Bordeaux, no one waits for this monsieur
To compliment the vineyard’s newest wine.
He sits at home in his sofa chair.
#
No comments:
Post a Comment