I looked for recipes in her translation of Proust.
I could be wrong.
Maybe they're not in there.
Maybe they're in Pee-Wee's improvised monologues
or in the words of friends and acquaintances
drifting in and out of consciousness,
having bid farewell
to Uncle Miltie’s cork-lined water closet,
for years the standard bearer for liquid plumbers
profiled in Better Homes and Gardens
that ubiquitous enabler
of tepid blurbs for Geritol.
Or maybe they're coded into the graphic versions
of Stephen Hawking’s Time Lost
hawked by junkyard dogs and other ne'er-do-wells.
Regardless, time passes.
Fashion plates spin with glee.
The Discovery Channel goes on record
in a vain attempt to transfuse vinyl.
Anything to keep out of hock.
Anything to stave off the due date,
admittedly missing a grace period.
The life of a court jester juggling, what,
five, six, seven balls
in the halcyon days of bungee jumps
accelerates the metabolism
sets loose change chomping at the bit
pockets fluttering with delight.
This is good, yes?
Dishpan dilemmas melt away.
You awake in the diorama featured on QVC:
locks unchanged; doors ajar.
Dusty volumes doze on podiums, awaiting magic fingers.
Everyone is in fine fettle.
And after? Who knows?
At the very least you’ll be penciled in
somewhere ages and ages hence.
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| Gérard Bertrand www.gerardbertrand.net |