I. Mimi at the Cabaret Vert
MIMI la Brunette, each crimson evening
sways her silver serpent arms,
peals in half falsetto notes,
at the Cabaret Vert
And with greedy eyes the coarse-lipped men internally undress her.
But I sit crumpled by a marble-breasted table,
the curacoa is vitriol to my chapped, dry lips.
I see through Mimi—I see through her tragedies
and I see through the subtle cosmetics
of her tired face.
(She bore a still-born bastard once,
the man she loves, a black-eyed corporal
has shell-shock and nigh throttled her in bed).
And Mimi la Brunette, each crimson evening
peals in half falsetto notes,
sways her silver serpent arms
at the Cabaret Vert.