on the strength of David Astbury's essay

on Charles Baudelaire, I dug-out an old

poem from the dreary draft folder

and re-worked it to its inevitable faults.

pesky rumors were going around Paris

like bed sores and early deaths

where Charles and Odilon Redon we seen

french-kissing at a solitary table

inside a dark, musty establishment frequented

by artists, poets, and commoners drawn to

the goings on of the art scene in Europe at the time.

of course there exists no evidence that the two

dark romantics reported to be french-kissing

at that specific table or ever being at the same

place at the same time or had actually ever met.

now take me, for instance:

the rumors of me and Cynthia Lasagna 

french-kissing behind the stage curtain at the

Sons of Italy Hall’s banquet during the

"installation of officers" is true. no doubt about that.

But Charles and Odilon? I don’t know. maybe. who can say?

but as a poem-writer I certainly like that the rumor still exists.