One taffeta evening near the Bastille,
A place bustling with sangria,
Des truffes, et parfum très cher,
Their waiter, starched and polished,
Described the house specialties
Most licentiously
Amid loud but assuredly erudite
French conversations.
She turned to their waiter and quietly said,
“Suis desolée, je ne comprend pas.”
Her impeccable faux Parisienne accent
Caused the waiter to smile broadly
And speak louder, rounding his eaux.
The man seated with her,
Whom she loved, and who
Would now explain things
To this waiter (or perhaps not…)
Whispered to her, so softly
She would never have heard him
Across these acres
Of white candlelit linen:
Deneuve eyes, he said.
Seductive, smart, tender, strong.
Those eyes, Deneuve eyes.
(Can les yeux take the feminine?
How can they not?)
Eyes of new, all things are new
Through your eyes Deneuve.
I will not leave these eyes, he said;
I must never disappoint these eyes.
Can les yeux take the feminine?
How can they not?
Gary Witt
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/les-yeux-deneuve/
