Dominatrix of Pastis
Ask me if there’s time enough,
as always the cubicle is cramped
with sounds of When? and She said.
Do I desire Playboy erotica,
hitchhiking nude on city streets,
or to be the dominatrix of pastis?
I need busy cafes, a house of hallways,
cluttered with others’ kitsch, tchotchkes,
bathrooms without knobs.
Ask me about fantasy
and I’ll say the blue of Matisse’s Nice,
the man who is, his eyes like Provence,
the Pont-du-Gard on a July afternoon,
the sky over exits on the Auto-Route,
a dry stone hut in fields of lavender.
No place is sacred when it comes
to dreams. As always what
you have heard is true.