The eponymous,
Onomatopoeic
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,
Well-hung,
A suspicion of poached quail egg,
But Parma violets predominate.
He sighs.
An epiphany of temps perdus.
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