PARIS AT NIGHT.

[dadio]

Hazel lies down upon the pillow and
Listens to the sounds of Paris outside.
A thin slither of light pushes its way
Through a crack in the shutters. It has been

A wonderful day, she muses, turning
Her head to where her maid Dunne lies sleeping
In the other bed. She watches the rise
And fall of Dunne’s form beneath the covers.

The Louvre had been a good idea. The art
Had thrilled her. She thought Dunne would grow bored and
Wander around like a child without play,
But she had been equally as thrilled and

Studied each painting with a scholar eye.
She had been tempted at times unthinkingly
To take Dunne’s hand in hers. She had when she
Came last time with her friend Margaret, but

That was then and Margaret had been her
Lover too. Hazel sighs. She looks away
At the slither of light. Back then she and
Margaret had made love in Paris with

Neither care nor concern. This time she had
Reclined. Some other new lover Hazel
Assumes, looking once more where Dunne sleeps, her
Breathing soft, yet regular as seasons

Come. She watches the outlines where the light
Touches: the features of face, the fine hair,
The rising and falling of the firm breast,
The young body at rest. She has been most

Attentive, Hazel muses in the dark.
Maids are I suppose. Yet there seems more there
Than duty and a maid’s sense of care. She’s
glad she brought her along now, glad she‘s there.

Paris lives on outside the closed windows,
The light flickers through the shutter’s crack and
Dances upon the place where Dunne lies in
Bed, touches the pillow that holds her head.