The paddle tennis courts are haunted, graced
By myriad spirits—some demonic, foul,
Others, bright. Chief among those we embrace:
Virginie’s haloed smiles—she never scowls.
Haven’t seen her for a month. I asked Jim—
Her close friend—where’s our sprightly goddess been?
His eyes dimmed; stone-faced, lips white, taut, and grim,
He told me she was ill. Our shining jinn
Was ill! Clearly no vagrant flu explained
Jim’s desolation. I could not ask more—
Silently, I shrieked, bitterly complained—
Counted dispensable boors—then implored:
Mon dieu, tu sais, ce n’est pas juste—
Alors, ce n’est pas juste, mon dieu!
(3/18/10)