Laurels by Patrick Trombly

Laure, you made me wait outside for hours

just to see my Victorine without her clothes.

Then she doesn’t welcome me. She strikes a pose,

and lets me know that she’s not mine, but “ours,”

or, someone else’s, which now everybody knows,

as he’s come, and gone, and left a bunch of flowers

and a cat – symbol of supernatural powers.

That bracelet, ribbon, orchid, what are those?

Her hand rests on her thigh, so I can’t see

what he has had, she now dares me to kiss.

I offer to oblige – she scowls at me,

while I, trembling, stare into the abyss.

They’re playing songs of love, but not for me.

May I ask, did you put her up to this?