My infatuation with Jean Jacques Rousseau goes way back
I loved him long before I conjured him
drinking in the glory of his soft curls,
beautiful nose and shapely mouth.
Tonight at Piatto, he was irritated
“I rather thought we would go to the opera…” he sniffed
Opera Smopera when we can share this glorious Tour of Italy platter?
I’m a workin’ girl, talk about the common man.
Jean Jacques pats his ruffles
I can tell he is put off
he would rather be arguing on the opposite side
of a discourse somewhere
preferably with an Italian.
“The music here….” he waves his hands dismissively
“What is lasting in French?” I ask
“I can’t save you,” he retorts.
Does this perhaps stem from
the inequality of men?
I worry that Jean Jacques tires of me
that someday he will abandon me
and begin the eternal search
for Heloise, The Precious One.
Back in the 80s
I was eating out
with another guy
who wasn’t Jean Jacques Rousseau
but a computer science major
his Corvette stalled
in the middle of the parking lot
on a January night
and this reminds me
that Jean Jacques Rousseau
can be frosty
as a date marred by icy winds.
Outside, we are plunged
into a night without fetters
“Please,” I stammer….
He checks the evenness of his nails
“I must say that I rather enjoyed those ravioli nibbles.”
The evening has spun its darkened web
heaviness beckons me to sleep the sleep
of perished dreams
a romantic moon rising
and by starlight
across the oceans of ages
an illuminated gentleman
now freed by the night.