She sits and reads her livre de poche
And drinks her glass vin rouge,
And in her eyes are fragile tears
That secretly perfuse;
She is a lonely frightened bird
Who stares intent, head bent on words
Sitting at her cafe table
Afraid of life, a hopeless fable.
Claude summoned with a crooking finger,
She lonely, rescued, tried to linger;
She lived with him La Vie Boheme
Sat at his feet and worshipped him.
He tired of his petite jeune fille
Who knelt so grateful at his knee;
With palette knife she slashed her wrists;
Broke in upon his latest tyrst.
Claude bound her veins and carried her
To a summoned ambulance;
La Folle Americaine restrained,
And vite, expelled from France.
She sits alone
In the Day Room sun
Beside the plexiglass;
A book of Sartre in her lap,
A cracker, her repast;
Claude did not come
To visit her
While on his State-side trip:
She ate
Crushed grapes from
Spearing thumb
And kissed his finger tips.