Paris RosemontOh, belle coquette with your noirish
allure—Catwoman slinking back
into your boudoir whiskers whet,
aftertaste of cream still velvet
on your tongue. Oh, Pussy-
cat, Pussycat, where have you been?
To whom did your heart belong
this April night under a swollen
moon sous le pont? Did you love
him enough to call him Daddy?
Like the Daddy-shaped puzzle
piece you’ve been trying to patch
that hole in your childhood with?
Marilyn dripped diamonds and
Shirley was finger-deep in gold
but you, Eartha—you were born
a woman of the earth. Feet
planted deep in the South
Carolina soil. Cheekbones cut
like the diamonds you mistrusted.
Just an Old Fashioned Girl searching
for love in all the wrong places.
It is never for sale.
Now reclining on a plush couch
you call the next reporter in. His eyes
are drawn to your shapely gams.
C’est si bon, you purr, taking
another swig of your brandy snifter.
