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Burning Chocolat

Mademoiselle likes her brioche
with crème fraîche, Maupassant
and a tasse de chocolat.
I like her way of nonchalantly
feigning I do not exist.
Makes me feel like Camus smoking a Gauloises
and struggling to pen the Myth of Sisyphus.

She tells me all one needs is love
but un peu de chocolat ne fait pas de mal.
I nod like a donkey newly neutered,
so peaceful about life
now that fucking is behind him,
so grateful he can live with
what he thought worse than death.

But unlike him, I’m not missing les gonades,
least not yet in this life
and even all the fussing,
all the Gallic sibilance and garlicky hauteur
do not militate against a vision
of her chaussures in my hands, still warm
from her feet, encore parfumé par eux.

But nothing like that this late morning
here in Montreal, not Montparnasse.
The day ahead looks like fromage suisse,
full of holes and foul in attitude.
We climb into my black pearl Citroën
and drive to stunning Mount Royal
where I drop her off and say merci pour rien.

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Poet and storyteller Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto, Canada. He is the author of five books, including Black Rabbit & Other Stories (Anvil Press). Recent work appears in Cafe Irreal, E-ratio, and The Lake.