Sunlight edges over the balcony

of a condominium appointed

with French provincial furniture,

seeps across the elegant carpet

as far as the marble coffee table

adorned with a porcelain bouquet

The only other thing that moves within

settles its furry self on the settee, and waits

When the sun drains down over the balcony,

the lady comes again and holds Poopsie

in her arms, pouts into its little ear:

She still needs an oriental lamp

for the end table, a classical piece

to set off the guest bath,

a gold trimmed mirror for the foyer

She straightens a pillow on her love seat

where she once placed a man,

arranged his stocking feet on an ottoman,

tried to make him heel but

he was far too messy and outspoken

and we had to put him out,

didn’t we, Poopsie?

“Don’t worry,” she says, cuddling

little precious ever more tightly

One night by accident

she’ll discover a male original

for a price she can afford and hang him

in the gallery of her dreams

Meanwhile, she kicks off her pumps,

pours something merry and neat,

poses before antique armoire avec TV,

dog in lap, expression stuck in pug,

nose in book, old bag with dog