Madame

“Bonsoir, ma belle!”
My landlady smiles bigly in her
Slippers and bathrobe – the colour of soap –
And pulls the heavy wooden door open.
To me, she is sumptuous French glamour,
With red lipstick that is
Leaking into the wrinkles
Leading like rivulets
To the red sea of her mouth.

She whispers me secrets in her husky,
Grandiose voice - secrets she tells
Anyone who will listen.

Her knuckly fingers wind around the
Frying pan handle that she returns to, talking
To herself, to me; stirring, the onions sautéing –
Jumping, and other mistranslations – and
Occasionally interrupts herself with an
English word as she remembers her audience.

She talks about the metro workers on strike –
“Ces communistes!” she spits – as though they are
Cockroaches crepusculating from the
Crowding underground corridors, red capes flaunting from
Their glistening carapaces.

Pulling her robe closer, leaning her head towards
Me –a maternal street peddler, about to
Reveal her glittering watches – she
Looks just beyond me, she tells me, nodding,
Of the wealthy lover she eloped with, almost.
She lives alone.