Rosseau

My infatuation with Jean Jacques Rousseau goes way back

I loved him long before I conjured him

drinking in the glory of his soft curls,

beautiful nose and shapely mouth.

Tonight at Piatto, he was irritated

“I rather thought we would go to the opera...” he sniffed

Opera Smopera when we can share this glorious Tour of Italy platter?

I'm a working girl, talk about the common man.

Jean Jacques pats his ruffles

I can tell he is put off

he would rather be arguing on the opposite side

of a discourse somewhere

preferably with an Italian.

“The music here....” he waves his hands dismissively

“What is lasting in French?” I ask

“I can't save you,” he retorts.

Does this perhaps stem from

the inequality of men?

I worry that Jean Jacques tires of me

that someday he will abandon me

and begin the eternal search

for Heloise, The Precious One.

Back in the 80s

I was eating out

same restaurant

with another guy

who wasn't Jean Jacques Rousseau

but a computer science major

his Corvette stalled

in the middle of the parking lot

on a January night

and this reminds me

that Jean Jacques Rousseau

can be frosty

as a date marred by icy winds.

Outside, we are plunged

into a night without chains

“Please,” I stammer....

He checks the evenness of his nails

“I must say that I rather enjoyed those ravioli nibbles.”

The evening has spun its darkened web

heaviness beckons me to sleep the sleep

of perished dreams

perhaps without

a romantic moon rising

and by starlight

he goes

across the oceans of ages

an illuminated gentleman

now freed by the night.