Many days I wander
among stuffed furnishings,
replete in my trendy pinny
stamped with picture of old wine drinkers
staring out at death from a single bench
in some distant French village.
It’s the dust below their feet
that chokes this carpet,
hiding floral patterns
faint hint of chinoiserie.
Their wine stains spread like ink
on blotting paper,
disgusting tobacco spumes
rain onto the fire, sizzling coals in the grate.
Why do I clean up the lives of others?
Why am I not sat on a rough bench
staining my tongue deep purple
with rouge vin du table , waiting for the bell
to toll me in to a huge dinner
of simple peasant fayre?
So I can pretend, more or less,
I didn’t make this disgusting mess