DANCING HOURS

Dancing hours
by leaves and ashes
on a September lawn
day dreaming in the margins
of living like Flaubert
reading out loud
the story tinged with grief
of Madame Bovary
still flecked
with a proud novel memory
yet wanting relief
by the Charles river bed
from an Indian summer day
heated by the sunshine
sunk down on a bench
in a sanguine dawn
of buoyant Autumn
no bird song grieves,
today the rent is due
maybe he too speaks
in a French accent
with a bottle of red wine
wanting everything new.