Paris, dans l'année de Notre Seigneur 1888

My favorite midinette pulls one bare
lily-white leg into the window seat,
tugs the hem of her chemise
to almost veil her girlish thighs
and watches all the other dolly birds
down on the Rue Saint-Denis
scurry in the rain. The moist air
winds ringlets in her honey gold hair.
Her eyes are too large in her
too little face, and if they weren't so
lash-weighed and wearied,
they'd shine as bright as the
gold Louis coins on the old oak bedstand.
All she need do to earn them is lie
fallow, nigh-undressed, and inhale
the sultry breath steaming off this
bright city's skin, so this poem can be
penned, and I can capture her forever.