Antoinette – A Poem

Antoinette

Sunday, and I have just begun to understand
its significance
as I ponder
in my studio over Franz’s Clock Shoppe
the subtle art of the guillotine,
Antoinette,
and the frail fibers of life.

Outside the window I watch how the street
is a clutter of activity
with the shoppers
gallantly searching for hidden bargains,
the delivery trucks unloading their goods,
and the children yelling, laughing
and bored
by their parent’s side.

A group of college students, some of whom I have spoken with a few times,
play cards at a white plastic table
outside the café
smoking,
sipping coffee
under
the jovial air of camaraderie.

Antoinette,
my Antoinette,
crosses the street
wearing a short black summer dress
and I touch my neck to feel the slender muscles,
tendons tense
in a romantic freeze.

The fabric of her sweet attire
accents her fabulously limber legs,
defines sumptuously her
barely covered derriere
and just conceals
her coveted hoo-hah.

The soles of her feet remain a gentle
pink hue
as she reaches her bicycle,
puts her small package in the basket on the handle bars,
and rides away,
escaping my life
and the bloody guillotine.

Frantically perspiring I leap out the door,
down the stairs to the street with all of its bustle and noise
but she is gone. In desperation I enter the store she exited
asking with shallow breath
the cashier of any information regarding
my dearest Antoinette.
Yet he could give me none out of professional
ethical
boundaries.

I leave yelling Bourgeois Bastard!
at the poor clerk
and search
for hours
throughout the town
for the girl
who departed on her yellow chariot
bike
but I find no gratification or reward.

And for days I have kept a watch at my window
but she never appeared
again.
I peruse the newspapers for any news
of any beheadings that were
spurred by the fevered spite of the disheveled masses.
They have remained meticulously vague.
Oh Antoinette,
you gave me pause
to consider the mercy of the guillotine
and summoned me
to decry
Sunday
and all of its splendor.

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