She longs to simply push him off the balcony,
And watch him fall like an old cherished hope.
Once,
Madeleine felt as close to him
As the pomade on his hair.
Constantly, she whispered in his ear
Words of devotion as sweet as any lozenge.
But now,
Though she searches her heart as if it were The Golden Shoulder Bag,
She has to admit that he has become work-a-day,
And no different, really,
From any other man;
He has become the proverbial
Ordinary Brand.
When she suggests that they go dancing,
He looks slightly shocked
As if she had proposed that they drown the cat,
Or go downstairs together to seduce the doorman.
Sometimes she spreads his good tuxedo out on the bed
And lays her head on it, silently.
Madeleine knows
That Death could free her from him--
That if he had to clutch something in the last instant,
It would be his tiresome drug store cigar and not her hand.
Not even the pitiless pavement below
Could make him give it up.
Madeleine imagines
That if she pushed her dull lover off the balcony,
A detective would arrive and step out of the elevator as if he were a vended soda.
He would come in and sit in the chintz chair.
He would ask, "Why did you kill?"
"He smoked," she would reply.
The detective would set down his tea cup,
Put away his pen,
And say, "I know that these things happen.
I know you are a good person."
Then he would add, kindly,
"I know a nice little place where they play a mean rhumba.
Would you like to go?"
And she would say,
"Handsome,
I thought you'd never ask."
_____
