This happened long ago: My old friend Gene
and I relax at the café’s table,
our Pimm’s Cups caressing thick- lacquered sheen
of tan checkerboard surface. “You cable
mystery with your smile,” he prods. I lean
close. “I am Girod, and you the town’s chief
inspector,” I plot. “It’s 1819.
Your eyes search mine as though you’ve caught a thief,
I tell you. Your keen gaze circles ceiling
of dark wood. You squint, listen for footsteps
from above. Your knuckles, like bowed, kneeling
altar boys, press the table; tongue’s forceps
grasp for confession: He’s upstairs. I’m sure.
I lean back. Smile. Sip wine. Ask, Who, monsieur?”
Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2008
