Smoke swings in the air,
drowning us in oyster fumes.
I’ll never scrub it out of my skin.
I sit here waiting, having
arrived ten minutes ago.
I was hot then but now
I am turning tepid.
You sit there and feebly flirt;
bumping me with your elbow
as if I’m not even here.
Why did I bother?
He’s not really interested in you, you know.
He comes here; he passes time with you, but
do you honestly think he will take you home?
Or pen you into his biographical tome?
Why do you bother?
Stop blowing smoke in my face!
Don’t you see that he is looking past
you into the mirror to ensure that his
hair is still perfectly quaffed?
A suspicious wife is a willful wife.
I’ve tried to shine truth upon you.
If I could walk out right now, I would.
You must leave first.
This night grows weary of your laughter.
I grow weary of this night.
This is the second in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.