Baudelaire sits in my living room trimming candle wicks and his toenails
with a pen knife.
A Nor' Easter blows into town
like a circus running from debt.
He asks for a lantern. I show him how to turn on the floor lamp
and overhead lights, but no luck. He sits in the dark.
The wind keens, the moans of dinosaurs
wailing their extinction.
I have to read him the Wiki article on Fleurs du Mal over and over, like reading
Goodnight Moon to a child. He appears to understand English.
Lightning from Dr. Frankenstein
bringing his monster to life.
He wears his flâneur costume with that floppy bow tie.
He's back to picking his toes.
Gusts of snow mad as hornets
sting my face.
Let's be honest, the opium and syphilis have not been kind to him. His skin is mottled
and orange like a pumpkin.
And then leaves town, vamoose,
with the runaway girl.
Shay’s Word Garden