Monsieur Petephoie

The eponymous,


Monsieur Petephoie

Repines in silk pajamas

And cashmere robe

On his chaise longue.

He sucks a cachou,

Smokes a cigarillo

And surveys his universe

His febrile hand

Smooths his black

Brilliantined hair

And caresses his

Waxed moustache.

In his netherlands

There is a sibilance

And a susurration

Amidst the silk.

The elegant nostrils

Flare like a thoroughbred’s.

He sniffs a fragrance,

Suggestive of insouciant days,

Recalling plucked partridge,


A suspicion of poached quail egg,

But Parma violets predominate.

He sighs.

An epiphany of temps perdus.

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