ON BEING NOVEL

Dreaming in a cul de sac road
of Balzac demanding paper
after a daily nightmare
with a cropped headache
of writer's block
imagining a soul is being
guillotined somewhere
in Paris,

"Help me,"
he says to the actor
her red gown thrown
over the baroque sofa
as in a romantic season
of opera buffa
nibbling on foie de gras
offering his lover
a gold snuff box
in a silver age case
hoping for his table mate
a space to stay the night
bowing in a jaunty manner
with a panic attack
getting a revision
in his body language
by drinking cognac
on this powder blue night
lighting matches
Honore chairs a meeting
amid his brick a brac notes
remembering a chapter
full of scratches and notes.