Le Parfum ~ Saturday, 19 October 2019

Onions, parsley, and garlic simmer down, 

fragrant in the kitchen, a splash of oil, 

restless in the skillet, imbues the air, 

emanates in eminent aromas, 

sensible with a nose for savory 

tempestuous affairs between oysters, 

left waiting for reprieve from the head chef, 

en attendant Godot, in her office, 

silence from the governor means sure death, 

still life, better than the electric chair, 

nights last an eternity in prison, 

insane fellow felons screaming their lungs 

green from gastric juices, drunk with despair, 

humans go stir crazy without options, 

their freedoms selectively stripped of hope, 

stripped naked in a cell with their faeces, 

ignorant guards ignore the screams, or taunt 

notably ignoble inmates with rape, 

one-night stands in cheap motels, 

      rundown dives 

noted for vice squad raids for prostitutes, 

elegantly-dressed in tattered fur coats, 

narcotics abound with sleazy pushers, 

insisting smack addicts use their product, 

gin and tonic for the night manager, 

hungry sex addicts crave the attention 

tawdry laced sex workers offer clients, 

cheap as sparrows chattering in the bush, 

helpless, haunted, hungry for what their wives 

elect not to offer their staid husbands, 

advocates for unadventurous lives, 

prostitutes from Eastern Europe adore 

humble bankers, doctors, lawyers with cash, 

old men with their erectile dysfunctions, 

trembling with Parkinson's disease, forget 

even how to untie their shoe laces, 

letting the sex workers do all the work, 

servants to their master, Andrew Jackson. 

Angry, frustrated housewives cannot find 

neutral tones on their blank canvas, they scan 

descending lines for coordinate points, 

slumping in their chairs, sawdust at their feet, 

as they eat Oysters over Angel Hair, 

women discuss the taste of the garlic, 

demonstrating a subtle awareness, 

understanding intuitively what 

salt accentuates flavor in dishes 

tossed with Parmigiano-Reggiano, 

restaurateurs watch their patrons enter, 

eat, and leave, taking their conversations, 

struck in earnest, in appreciation 

that time with good friends is fleeting, at best, 

at worst, non-existent, empty as space 

under the watchful eye of the head chef, 

rested from a short nap on her chaise longue, 

ants appear from on high, people down low, 

nothing but the older ladies painting 

their still life studies of a bowl of fruit, 

simply adorned on a wooden table, 

wicked read, Shark's Fin & Sichuan Pepper, 

in her spare time, the head chef 

      digests lunch, 

troubled by her brother and twin sisters, 

her mind needs rest but seeks out adventure, 

only who has time cash to travel, 

yes, when she was a student she studied 

subtle odors in Paris and New York, 

thinking she would create new fragrances, 

ending up in a kitchen cooking soups, 

reality sets in when it's too late, 

simply apply the mortar to the bricks, 

hindsight consoles egrets of their regrets, 

exiting the revolving door, ladies 

lift their wet canvases with a light touch, 

little do they believe their art worthwhile, 

some painters take years before they use red. 

---

Acrostic Format Derived From: 

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot (lines 6-7)

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: