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Just looking,
from the window
at puddles
on La Rue
Toulouse-Lautrec,
chiffon in pink
and satin skirts
accentuate
face cream en matte,
a hurried patter
so subdued
by drizzle
and those shades
of nights
belonging to
the Moulin Rouge.
And as it turns,
untiringly,
it nods
as if to say
il faut
qu' je parte,
and it is late,
yet, once inside
all time suspends
itself
to serve the soul
of all the faithful.
I say adieu,
to rooms of gloom,
and squeeze
behind the
rather fat concierge
to prove
that destiny
can never lie.
It nods as well,
just watching me
as feet with wings
do carry me inside
a world of
Beaujolais,
and Gauloise
and finally,
Pernod.
I fall asleep
and dream
of you,
while silky folds
of pettycoat and powder
caress me
inside the
Moulin Rouge.
Herbert Nehrlich
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