It Was a Bichon Frisé's Life . . .

Louisiana skies paddle north nodding hello to some exiles

displaced by floodwaters so we all putter in the bisque

in fretted dresses, alleviated by a fan. But we have nothing on

"Le Matin," in whose rococo frame a curtain sweeps to bare

a boudoir, a Bichon Frisé worrying something between paws,

begging the dulcet glance of the mistress whose push-up,

cupless corset and up-drawn stocking border what they

fall short of, per the stern frame rippling like a cloud!

Even the candle angles to get a look in the mirror

engloving the scene. Why it is her slipper the bitch clutches!   

The gentleman's reverie is elsewhere . . . Loitering

Louisiana stops to admire this engraving by "N. Lavreinee."

What a chevalier! It makes the smeariest sunset think

it's in a Restoration Comedy, in such humidity

chefs defer meringues. "Ksar Rouge," "Taos Adobe,"

"Gulf Shrimp"—a thousand names of softboiled

lipsticks fritter English as if it were French, meaning

meeting no resistance from the flesh.