(seen at rue Raynouard, Passy)

By: James Aitchison

It is small.
It is plain.
The literature shaped on its surface
shaped its surface — see, it is
worn concave in the centre by a
weighty arm moving across it,
back and forth, back and forth,
writing, writing, writing.

It is small.
It is plain.
Unlike its toadlike owner.
Gold rings on stout fingers,
white waistcoat with coral buttons,
himself a human comedy
living amid muslin drapes
on a white cashmere divan,
exploring Paris with a
turquoise-encrusted cane.

Paris, he wrote at this desk,
is a veritable ocean,
you will never know how deep it is.
A vast pleasure factory!

Indeed, Monsieur Balzac,
your little desk was our
pleasure factory too.