Cordon Bleu Night in Paris
The sky was beurre noisette,
lightning flashed thin bouchées
like gratiner she thought
pulling on her nouvelle cuisine coat
Not a night to be out in
hurrying down path awash
with floating grape leaf shadows
wrenching open door of her
tiny pâté car, pushing
Key in slot, no response, a silent
prayer, a half swallowed plea, then
engine turns over once, twice, a rusty
food mixer in stubborn dough
left too long in the bowl, finally
catching in a whirring Parisienne sound
Thunder crashes, pudding bowl heavens
open pour their contents on to
her world: road lamps blurring, house
windows Macédoine then splitting again
in scrape-scrape of wipers across
whirling cookbook vista recipes,
traffic lights, intersections, directions
all merging into menus of unintelligible
instructions, confusing as a sushi bar
conveyor belt spinning faster, faster
out of control
Unbelievably she was there, storm over,
pavements steaming appetizing gurgles.
she ran up steps drying off in perfect
vanilla papillote layers, stripping off her
foil protection, pausing, applying caramel
icing make-up, raspberry lipstick, then
fragrant, triumphant opening door, stepping
in to a dusting of applause
Cordon bleu lady strikes again
and they all hurry to have a taste